
Qass__| 3S^S_ 

Book-, iMlL 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



MINCE PIE 

CHRISTOPHER MORLEY 



MINCE PIE 

ADVENTURES ON THE 
SUNNY SIDE OF GRUB STREET 



BY 

CHRISTOPHER MORLEY 
■i 

ILLUSTRATED BY 

WALTER JACK DUNCAN 




NEW YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 






COPYRIGHT, 1919, 
BT GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



DEC 19 1919 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 



. A 5 6 1 4 8 



TO 

F. M. and L. J. M. 




INSTRUCTIONS 

This book is intended to be read in bed. 
Please do not attempt to read it anywhere else. 

In order to obtain the best results for all con- 
cerned do not read a borrowed copy, but buy 
one. If the bed is a double bed, buy two. 

Do not lend a copy under any circumstances, 
but refer your friends to the nearest bookshop, 
where they may expiate their curiosity. 

Most of these sketches were first printed in 
the Philadelphia Evening Public Ledger; oth- 
ers appeared in The Bookman, the Boston 
Evening Transcript, Life, and The Smart Set. 
To all these publications I am indebted for per- 
mission to reprint. 

If one asks what excuse there can be for pro- 
longing the existence of these trifles, my an- 
swer is that there is no excuse. But a copy of 

[vii] 



Instructions 

the bedside shelf may possibly pave the way to 
easy slumber. Only a mind "debauched by 
learning" (in Doctor Johnson's phrase) will 
scrutinize them too anxiously. 

It seems to me, on reading the proofs, that 

the skit entitled "Trials of a President Travel- 
ling Abroad" is a faint and subconscious echo of 
a passage in a favorite of my early youth, Happy 
Thoughts, by the late F. C. Burnand. If this 
acknowledgment should move anyone to read 
that delicious classic of pleasantry, the innocent 
plunder may be pardonable. 

And now a word of obeisance. I take this 
opportunity of thanking several gentle over- 
seers and magistrates who have been too gen- 
erously friendly to these eccentric gestures. 
These are Mr. Robert Cortes Holliday, editor 
of The Bookman and victim of the novelette 
herein entitled "Owd Bob"; Mr. Edwin F. 
Edgett, literary editor of The Boston Tran- 
script, who has often permitted me to cut out- 
rageous capers in his hospitable columns; and 
Mr. Thomas L. Masson, of Life, who allows me 
to reprint several of the shorter pieces. But 
most of all I thank Mr. David E. Smiley, editor 
[viii] 



Instructions 

of the Philadelphia Evening Public Ledger, for 
whom the majority of these sketches were writ- 
ten, and whose patience and kindness have been 
a frequent amazement to 

THE AUTHOR. 
Philadelphia 
September, 1919 



[ix] 




CONTENTS 



On Filling an Ink-well . 

Old Thoughts for Christmas . 

Christmas Cards .... 
/-On Unanswering Letters 

A Letter to Father Time 

What Men Live By . 

The Unnatural Naturalist 

Sitting in the Barber's Chair . . 

Brown Eyes and Equinoxes 

163 Innocent Old Men 

A Tragic Smell in Marathon . 
/Bullied by the Birds 

A Message for Boonville . 

Making Marathon Safe for the Urchin 

The Smell of Smells 

A Japanese Bachelor 



page 
17 

24 

31 

35 

41 

48 

54 

60 

64 

69 

75 

81 

87 

92 

98 

102 



[Xi] 



Contents 

PAGE 

Two Days We Celebrate .... 117 

The Urchin at the Zoo ..... 132 

Fellow Craftsmen . ... . . . 139 

The Key King 144 

"OwdBob" . . . . . . .150 

The Apple That No One Ate . . . .167 

Aa to Rumors 174 

Our Mothers ....... 181 

Greeting to American Anglers . . .186 

^Mrs. Izaak Walton Writes a Letter to Her 
Mother 190 

Truth 193 

The Tragedy op Washington Square . . 195 

If Mr. Wilson Were the Weather Man . 202 

Syntax for Cynics 205 

The Truth at Last 209 

Fixed Ideas 211 

Trials of a President Travelling Abroad . 215 

Diary of a Publisher's Office Boy . . . 217 

The Dog's Commandments .... 219 

The Value of Criticism ..... 221 

A Marriage Service for Commuters . . . 224 

The Sunny Side of Grub Street . . . 226 
Burial Service for a Newspaper Joke . .236 

^Advice to Those Visiting a Baby . . . 238 
fxiil 



Contents 



Abou Ben Woodeow . 
My Magnificent System . 
Letters to Cynthia 

1 In Praise of Boobs 

2 Simplification 

To an Unknown Damsel . 
Thoughts on Setting an Alarm Clock 
Songs in a Shower Bath . 
On Dedicating a New Teapot . 
The Unforgivable Syntax 
Visiting Poets .... 
A Good Home in the Suburbs . 
Walt Whitman Miniatures 
On Doors 



PAGE 

240 

242 



245 
250 
256 
258 
259 
261 
265 
264 
270 
272 
292 



[xiii] 



MINCE PIE 



MINCE PIE 



ON FILLING AN INK-WELL 

THOSE who buy their ink in little stone 
jugs may prefer to do so because the 
pottle reminds them of cruiskeen lawn or gin- 
ger beer (with its wire-bound cork), but they 
miss a noble delight. Ink should be bought 
in the tall, blue glass, quart bottle (with the 
ingenious non-drip spout), and once every three 
weeks or so, when you fill your ink-well, it is 
your privilege to elevate the flask against the 
brightness of a window, and meditate (with a 
breath of sadness) on the joys and problems 
that sacred fluid holds in solution. 

How blue it shines toward the light! Blue 
as lupin or larkspur, or cornflower — aye, and 
even so blue art thou, my scriven, to think 
how far the written page falls short of the 
bright ecstasy of thy dream! In the bottle, 
what magnificence of unpenned stuff lies cool 
and liquid: what fluency of essay, what fonts of 
song. As the bottle glints, blue as a squill or 
[17] 



Mince Pie 

a hyacinth, bine as the meadows of Elysium or 
the eyes of girls loved by young poets, meseems 
the racing pen might almost gain upon the 
thoughts that are turning the bend in the road. 
A jolly throng, those thoughts: I can see them 
talking and laughing together. But when pen 
reaches the road's turning, the thoughts are 
gone far ahead: their delicate figures are sil- 
houettes against the sky. 

It is a sacramental matter, this filling the 
ink-well. Is there a writer, however humble, 
who has not poured into his writing pot, with 
the ink, some wistful hopes or prayers for what 
may emerge from that dark source? Is there 
not some particular reverence due the ink-well, 
some form of propitiation to humbug the pow- 
ers of evil and constraint that devil the jour- 
nalist? Satan hovers near the ink-pot. Luther 
solved the matter by throwing the well itself 
at the apparition. That savors to me too much 
of homeopathy. If Satan ever puts his face 
over my desk, I shall hurl a volume of Harold 
Bell Wright at him. 

But what becomes of the ink-pots of glory? 
The conduit from which Boswell drew, for 
Charles Dilly in The Poultry, the great river 
of his Johnson? The well (was it of blue 
china?) whence flowed Dream Children: a Rev- 
ery? (It was written on folio ledger sheets 
[18] 



On Filling an Ink-well 

from the East India House — I saw the manu- 
script only yesterday in a room at Daylesford, 
Pennsylvania, where much of the richest ink 
of the last two centuries is lovingly laid away.) 
The pot of chuckling fluid where Harry Field- 
ing dipped his pen to tell the history of a cer- 
tain foundling; the ink-wells of the Cafe de la 




Source on the Boul' Mich' — do they by any 
chance remember which it was that R. L. S. 
used? One of the happiest tremors of my 
life was when I went to that cafe and called 
for a bock and writing material, just because 
R. L. S. had once written letters there. And 
the ink-well Poe used at that boarding-house 
in Greenwich Street, New York (April, 1844), 
when he wrote to his dear Muddy (his mother- 
in-law) to describe how he and Virginia had 
reached a haven of square meals. That hopeful 
letter, so perfect now in pathos — 

For breakfast we had excellent-flavored coffee, hot 
and strong — not very clear and no great deal of 

[19] 



Mince Pie 

cream — veal cutlets, elegant ham and eggs and nice 
bread and butter. I never sat down to a more 
plentiful or a nicer breakfast. I wish you could 
have seen the eggs — and the great dishes of meat. 
Sis [his wife] is delighted, and we are both in ex- 
cellent spirits. She has coughed hardly any and had 
no night sweat. She is now busy mending my pants, 
which I tore against a nail. I went out last night 
and bought a skein of silk, a skein of thread, two 
buttons, a pair of slippers, and a tin pan for the 
stove. The fire kept in all night. We have now got 
four dollars and a half left. To-morrow I am going 
to try and borrow three dollars, so that I may have a 
fortnight to go upon. I feel in excellent spirits, and 
haven't drank a drop — so that I hope soon to get out 
of trouble. 

Yes, let us clear the typewriter off the table: 
an ink-well is a sacred thing. 

Do you ever stop to think, when you see the 
grimy spattered desks of a public post-office, 
how many eager or puzzled human hearts have 
tried, in those dingy little ink-cups, to set 
themselves right with fortune? What blissful 
meetings have been appointed, what scribblings 
of pain and sorrow, out of those founts of com- 
mon speech. And the ink-wells on hotel coun- 
ters — does not the public dipping place of the 
Bellevue Hotel, Boston, win a new dignity in 
my memory when I know (as I learned lately) 
that Rupert Brooke registered there in the 
[20] 



On Filling an Ink-well 

spring of 1914? I remember, too, a certain 
pleasant vibration when, signing my name one 
day in the Bellevue's book, I found Miss Agnes 
Repplier's autograph a little above on the same 
page. 

Among our younger friends, Vachel Lind- 
say comes to mind as one who has done honor 
to the ink-well. His Apology for the Bottle 
Volcanic is in his best flow of secret smiling 
(save an unfortunate dilution of Riley) : 

Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of 

fire, 
The salamanders flying forth I cannot but ad- 
mire. . . . 
O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way — 
All demons of a bottle size have pranced from you 

to-day, 
And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride 

a broom, 
And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and 

gobs of gloom. 
And yet when I am extra good . . . [here I omit 

the transfusion of Riley] 
My bottle spreads a rainbow mist, and from the 

vapor fine 
Ten thousand troops from fairyland come riding in 

a line. 

I suppose it is the mark of a trifling mind, 
yet I like to hear of the little particulars that 
surrounded those whose pens struck sparks. 

[21] 



Mince Pie 

It is Boswell that leads us into that habit of 
thought. I like to know what the author wore, 
how he sat, what the furniture of his desk and 
chamber, who cooked his meals for him, and 
with what appetite he approached them. "The 
mind soars by an effort to the grand and lofty" 
(so dipped Hazlitt in some favored ink-bottle) 
— "it is at home in the groveling, the disagree- 
able, and the little." 

I like to think, as I look along book shelves, 
that every one of these favorites was born 
out of an ink-well. I imagine the hopes and 
visions that thronged the author's mind as he 
filled his pot and sliced the quill. What vari- 
ous fruits have flowed from those ink-wells of 
the past: for some, comfort and honor, quiet 
homes and plenteousness ; for others, bitterness 
and disappointment. I have seen a copy of 
Poe's poems, published 1845 by Putnam, in- 
scribed by the author. The volume had been 
bought for $2,500. Think what that would 
have meant to Poe himself. 

Some such thoughts as these twinkled in my 
head as I held up the Pierian bottle against 
the light, admired the deep blue of it, and filled 
my ink-well. And then I took up my pen, 
which wrote: 



[22] 



On Filling an Ink-well 



A GRACE BEFORE WRITING 

This is a sacrament, I think! 

Holding the bottle toward the light, 
As blue as lupin gleams the ink: 

May Truth be with me as I write! 

That small dark cistern may afford 
Reunion with some vanished friend, — 

And with this ink I have just poured 
May none but honest words be penned! 



[*3J 



OLD THOUGHTS FOR CHRISTMAS 




ANEW thought for Christmas? Who ever 
wanted a new thought for Christmas? 
That man should be shot who would try to brain 
one. It is an impertinence even to write about 
Christmas. Christmas is a matter that human- 
ity has taken so deeply to heart that we will 
not have our festival meddled with by bungling 
hands. No efficiency expert would dare tell us 
that Christmas is inefficient; that the clockwork 
toys will soon be broken; that no one can eat 
a peppermint cane a yard long; that the curves 
on our chart of kindness should be ironed out 
so that the "peak load" of December would be 
evenly distributed through the year. No sour- 



Old Thoughts for Christmas 

face dare tell us that we drive postmen and 
shopgirls into Bolshevism by overtaxing them 
with our frenzied purchasing or that it is ab- 
surd to send to a friend in a steam-heated apart- 
ment in a prohibition republic a bright little 
picture card of a gentleman in Georgian cos- 
tume drinking ale by a roaring fire of logs. 
None in his senses, I say, would emit such soph- 
istries, for Christmas is a law unto itself and 
is not conducted by card-index. Even the post- 
men and shopgirls, severe though their labors, 
would not have matters altered. There is none 
of us who does not enjoy hardship and bustle 
that contribute to the happiness of others. 

There is an efficiency of the heart that 
transcends and contradicts that of the head. 
Things of the spirit differ from things mate- 
rial is; that the more you give the more you 
have. The comedian has an immensely better 
time than the audience. To modernize the 
adage, to give is more fun than to receive. Es- 
pecially if you have wit enough to give to those 
who don't expect it. Surprise is the most prim- 
itive joy of humanity. Surprise is the first rea- 
son for a baby's laughter. And at Christmas 
time, when we are all a little childish I hope, 
surprise is the flavor of our keenest joys. We 
all remember the thrill with which we once 
heard, behind some closed door, the rustle and 

[25] 



Mince Pie 

crackle of paper parcels being tied up. We 
knew that we were going to be surprised — a 
delicious refinement and luxuriant seasoning of 
the emotion! 

Christmas, then, conforms to this deeper effi- 
ciency of the heart. We are not methodical in 
kindness; we do not "fill orders" for consign- 
ments of affection. We let our kindness ramble 
and explore; old forgotten friendships pop up 
in our minds and we mail a card to Harry Hunt, 
of Minneapolis (from whom we have not heard 
for half a dozen years), "just to surprise him." 
A business man who shipped a carload of goods 
to a customer, just to surprise him, would soon 
perish of abuse. But no one ever refuses a 
shipment of kindness, because no one ever feels 
overstocked with it. It is coin of the realm, 
current everywhere. And we do not try to 
measure our kindnesses to the capacity of our 
friends. Friendship is not measurable in cal- 
ories. How many times this year have you 
"turned" your stock of kindness? 

It is the gradual approach to the Great Sur- 
prise that lends full savor to the experience. 
It has been thought by some that Christmas 
would gain in excitement if no one knew when 
it was to be ; if (keeping the festival within the 
winter months) some public functionary (say, 
Mr. Burleson) were to announce some unex- 
[26] 



Old Thoughts for Christmas 

pected morning, "A week from to-day will be 
Christmas!" Then what a scurrying and joy- 
ful frenzy — what a festooning of shops and 
mad purchasing of presents ! But it would not 
be half the fun of the slow approach of the 
familiar date. All through November and De- 
cember we watch it drawing nearer; we see the 
shop windows begin to glow with red and green 
and lively colors ; we note the altered demeanor' 
of bellboys and janitors as the Date flows 
quietly toward us ; we pass through the haggard 
perplexity of "Only Four Days More" when 
we suddenly realize it is too late to make our 
shopping the display of lucid affectionate rea- 
soning we had contemplated, and clutch wildly 
at grotesque tokens — and then (sweetest of all) 
comes the quiet calmness of Christmas Eve. 
Then, while we decorate the tree or carry par- 
cels of tissue paper and red ribbon to a care- 
fully prepared list of aunts and godmothers, or 
reckon up a little pile of bright quarters on the 
dining-room table in preparation for to-mor- 
row's largesse — then it is that the brief, poign- 
ant and precious sweetness of the experience 
claims us at the full. Then we can see that all our 
careful wisdom and shrewdness were folly and 
stupidity; and we can understand the meaning 
of that Great Surprise — that where we planned 
wealth we found ourselves poor; that where we 

[JCTJ 



Mince Pie 

thought to be impoverished we were enriched. 
The world is built upon a lovely plan if we take 
time to study the blue-prints of the heart. 

Humanity must be forgiven much for having 
invented Christmas. What does it matter that 
a great poet and philosopher urges "the aban- 
donment of the masculine pronoun in allusions 
to the First or Fundamental Energy"? The- 
ology is not saddled upon pronouns; the best 
doctrine is but three words, God is Love. Love, 
or kindness, is fundamental energy enough to 
satisfy any brooder. And Christmas Day means 
the birth of a child; that is to say, the triumph 
of life and hope over suffering. 

Just for a few hours on Christmas Eve and 
Christmas Day the stupid, harsh mechanism 
of the world runs down and we permit our- 
selves to live according to untrammeled com- 
mon sense, the unconquerable efficiency of good 
will. We grant ourselves the complete and 
selfish pleasure of loving others better than our- 
selves. How odd it seems, how unnaturally 
happy we are! We feel there must be some 
mistake, and rather yearn for the familiar fric- 
tions and distresses. Just for a few hours we 
"purge out of every heart the lurking grudge." 
We know then that hatred is a form of illness; 
that suspicion and pride are only fear; that the 
rascally acts of others are perhaps, in the queer 
[28] 



Old Thoughts for Christmas 

webwork of human relations, due to some cal- 
ousness of our own. Who knows? Some man 
may have robbed a bank in Nashville or fired 
a gun in Louvain because we looked so intol- 
erably smug in Philadelphia! 

So at Christmas we tap that vast reservoir 
of wisdom and strength — call it efficiency or the 
fundamental energy if you will — Kindness. 
And our kindness, thank heaven, is not the 
placid kindness of angels; it is veined with 
human blood; it is full of absurdities, irrita- 
tions, frustrations. A man 100 per cent, kind 
would be intolerable. As a wise teacher said, 
the milk of human kindness easily curdles into 
cheese. We like our friends' affections because 
we know the tincture of mortal acid is in them. 
We remember the satirist who remarked that to 
love one's self is the beginning of a lifelong 
romance. We know this lifelong romance will 
resume its sway; we shall lose our tempers, be 
obstinate, peevish and crank. We shall fidget 
and fume while waiting our turn in the barber's 
chair; we shall argue and muddle and mope. 
And yet, for a few hours, what a happy vision 
that was! And we turn, on Christmas Eve, to 
pages which those who speak our tongue immor- 
tally associate with the season — the pages of 
Charles Dickens. Love of humanity endures as 
long as the thing it loves, and those pages are 

[29] 



Mince Pie 

packed as full of it as a pound cake is full of 
fruit. A pound cake will keep moist three 
years; a sponge cake is dry in three days. 

And now humanity has its most beautiful and 
most appropriate Christmas gift — Peace. The 
Magi of Versailles and Washington having un- 
wound for us the tissue paper and red ribbon 
(or red tape) from this greatest of all gifts, 
let us in days to come measure up to what has 
been born through such anguish and horror. If 
war is illness and peace is health, let us re- 
member also that health is not merely a blessing 
to be received intact once and for all. It is 
not a substance but a condition, to be main- 
tained only by sound regime, self-discipline and 
simplicity. Let the Wise Men not be too wise; 
let them remember those other Wise Men who, 
after their long journey and their sage surmis- 
ings, found only a Child. On this evening it 
serves us nothing to pile up filing cases and 
rolltop desks toward the stars, for in our city 
square the Star itself has fallen, and shines 
upon the Tree. 



[30] 



CHRISTMAS CARDS 

BY a stroke of good luck we found a little 
shop where a large overstock of Christmas 
cards was selling at two for five. The original 
5's and 10's were still penciled on them, and 
while we were debating whether to rub them 
off a thought occurred to us. When will ar- 
tists and printers design us some Christmas 
cards that will be honest and appropriate to 
the time we live in? Never was the Day of 
Peace and Good Will so full of meaning as this 
year; and never did the little cards, charming 
as they were, seem so formal, so merely pretty, 
so devoid of imagination, so inadequate to the 
festival. 

This is an age of strange and stirring beauty, 
of extraordinary romance and adventure, of new 
joys and pains. And yet our Christmas artists 
have nothing more to offer us than the old 
formalism of Yuletide convention. After a 
considerable amount of searching in the bazaars 
we have found not one Christmas card that 
showed even a glimmering of the true romance, 
{which is to see the beauty or wonder or peril 

[31] 



Mince Pie 

that lies around us. Most of the cards hark 
back to the stage-coach up to its hubs in snow, 
or the blue bird, with which Maeterlinck pen- 
alized us (what has a blue bird got to do with 
Christmas?), or the open fireplace and jug of 
mulled claret. Now these things are merry 
enough in their way, or they were once upon a 
time; but we plead for an honest romanticism 
in Christmas cards that will express something 
of the entrancing color and circumstance that 
surround us to-day. Is not a commuter's train, 
stalled in a drift, far more lively to our hearts 
than the mythical stage-coach? Or an inter- 
urban trolley winging its way through the dusk 
like a casket of golden light? Or even a coun- 
try flivver, loaded down with parcels and holly 
and the Yuletide keg of root beer? Root beer 
may be but meager flaggonage compared to 
mulled claret, but at any rate 'tis honest, 'tis 
actual, 'tis tangible and potable. And where, 
among all the Christmas cards, is the airplane, 
that most marvelous and heart-seizing of all 
our triumphs? Where is the stately apartment 
house, looming like Gibraltar against a sunset 
sky ? Must we, even at Christmas time, fool our- 
selves with a picturesqueness that is gone, seeing 
nothing of what is around us? 

It is said that man's material achievements 
have outrun his imagination; that poets and 
[32] 



Christmas Cards 

painters are too puny to grapple with the world 
as it is. Certainly a visitor from another sphere, 
looking on our fantastic and exciting civiliza- 
tion, would find little reflection of it in the 
Christmas card. He would find us clinging des- 
perately to what we have been taught to believe 
was picturesque and jolly, and afraid to assert 
that the things of to-day are comely too. Even 
on the basis of discomfort (an acknowledged 
criterion of picturesqueness) surely a trolley 
car jammed with parcel-laden passengers is just 
as satisfying a spectacle as any stage coach? 
Surely the steam radiator, if not so lovely as a 
flame-gilded hearth, is more real to most of us? 
And instead of the customary picture of shiver- 
ing subjects of George III held up by a high- 
wayman on Hampstead Heath, why not a deftly 
delineated sketch of victims in a steam-heated 
lobby submitting to the plunder of the hat-check 
bandit? Come, let us be honest! The romance 
of to-day is as good as any ! 

Many must have felt this same uneasiness in 
trying to find Christmas cards that would really 
say something of what is in their hearts. The 
sentiment behind the card is as lovely and as 
true as ever, but the cards themselves are out- 
moded bottles for the new wine. It seems a 
cruel thing to say, but we are impatient with 
the mottoes and pictures we see in the shops, 

[33] 



Mince Pie 

because they are a conventional echo of a beauty 
that is past. What could be more absurd than 
to send to a friend in a city apartment a rhyme 
such as this: 

As round the Christmas fire you sit 
And hear the bells with frosty chime, 

Think, friendship that long love has knit 
Grows sweeter still at Christmas timet 

If that is sent to the janitor or the elevator 
boy we have no N cavil, for these gentlemen do 
actually see a fire and hear bells ring; but the 
apartment tenant hears naught but the hissing 
of the steam in the radiator, and counts himself 
lucky to hear that. Why not be honest and say 
to him: 

I hope the janitor has shipped 

You steam, to keep the cold away; 

And if the hallboys have been tipped, 
Then joy be thine on Christmas Day! 

We had not meant to introduce this jocular 
note into our meditation, for we are honestly 
aggrieved that so many of the Christmas cards 
hark back to an old tradition that is gone, and 
never attempt to express any of the romance of 
to-day. You may protest that Christmas is the 
oldest thing in the world, which is true; yet it 
is also new every year, and never newer than 
now. 

[34] 



ON UNANSWERING LETTERS 




THERE are a great many people who really 
believe in answering letters the day they 
are received, just as there are people who go 
to the movies at 9 o'clock in the morning; but 
these people are stunted and queer. 

It is a great mistake. Such crass and breath- 
less promptness takes away a great deal of the 
pleasure of correspondence. 

The psychological didoes involved in receiv- 
ing letters and making up one's mind to answer 
them are very complex. If the tangled process 
could be clearly analyzed and its component 
involutions isolated for inspection we might 
reach a clearer comprehension of that curious 
bag of tricks, the efficient Masculine Mind. 

Take Bill F., for instance, a man so delight- 

[35] ^. 



Mince Pie 

ful that even to contemplate his existence puts 
us in good humor and makes us think well of 
a world that can exhibit an individual equally 
comely in mind, body and estate. Every now 
and then we get a letter from Bill, and imme- 
diately we pass into a kind of trance, in which 
our mind rapidly enunciates the ideas, thoughts, 
surmises and contradictions that we would like 
to write to him in reply. We think what fun 
it would be to sit right down and churn the 
ink-well, spreading speculation and cynicism 
over a number of sheets of foolscap to be wafted 
Billward. 

Sternly we repress the impulse for we know 
that the shock to Bill of getting so immediate 
a retort would surely unhinge the well-fitted 
panels of his intellect. 

We add his letter to the large delta of un- 
answered mail on our desk, taking occasion to 
turn the mass over once or twice and run 
through it in a brisk, smiling mood, thinking 
of all the jolly letters we shall write some day. 

After Bill's letter has lain on the pile for a 
fortnight or so it has been gently silted over 
by about twenty other pleasantly postponed 
manuscripts. Coming upon it by chance, we 
reflect that any specific problems raised by Bill 
in that manifesto will by this time have settled 
themselves. And his random speculations upon 
[36] 



On Unanswering Letters 

household management and human destiny will 
probably have taken a new slant by now, so 
that to answer his letter in its own tune will 
not be congruent with his present fevers. We 
had better bide a wee until we really have some- 
thing of circumstance to impart. 

We wait a week. 

By this time a certain sense of shame has 
begun to invade the privacy of our brain. We 
feel that to answer that letter now would be an 
indelicacy. Better to pretend that we never 
got it. By and by Bill will write again and 
then we will answer promptly. We put the 
letter back in the middle of the heap and think 
what a fine chap Bill is. But he knows we 
love him, so it doesn't really matter whether 
we write or not. 

Another week passes by, and no further com- 
munication from Bill. We wonder whether he 
does love us as much as we thought. Still — 
we are too proud to write and ask. 

A few days later a new thought strikes us. 
Perhaps Bill thinks we have died and he is 
annoyed because he wasn't invited to the fu- 
neral. Ought we to wire him? No, because 
after all we are not dead, and even if he thinks 
we are, his subsequent relief at hearing the 
good news of our survival will outweigh his 
bitterness during the interval. One of these 

[37] 



Mince Pie 

3ays we will write him a letter that will really 
express our heart, filled with all the grindings 
and gear-work of our mind, rich in affection 
and fallacy. But we had better let it ripen and 
mellow for a while. Letters, like wines, accu- 
mulate bright fumes and bubblings if kept 
under cork. 

Presently we turn over that pile of letters 
again. We find in the lees of the heap two or 
three that have gone for six months and can 
safely be destroyed. Bill is still on our mind, 
but in a pleasant, dreamy kind of way. He 
does not ache or twinge us as he did a month 
ago. It is fine to have old friends like that 
and keep in touch with them. We wonder hew 
he is and whether he has two children or three. 
Splendid old Bill! 

By this time we have written Bill several 
letters in imagination and enjoyed doing so, 
but the matter of sending him an actual letter 
has begun to pall. The thought no longer has 
the savor and vivid sparkle it had once. When 
one feels like that it is unwise to write. Let- 
ters should be spontaneous outpourings: they 
should never be undertaken merely from a sense 
of duty. We know that Bill wouldn't want to 
get a letter that was dictated by a feeling of 
obligation. 

Another fortnight or so elapsing, it occurs to 
[38] 



On Unanswering Letters 

•us that we have entirely forgotten what Bill 
said to us in that letter. We take it out and 
con it over. Delightful fellow! It is full of 
his own felicitous kinks of whim, though some 
of it sounds a little old-fashioned by now. 
It seems a bit stale, has lost some of its fresh- 
ness and surprise. Better not answer it just 
yet, for Christmas will soon be here and we 
shall have to write then anyway. We wonder, 
can Bill hold out until Christmas without a 
letter ? 

We have been rereading some of those im- 
aginary letters to Bill that have been dancing 
in our head. They are full of all sorts of fine 
stuff. If Bill ever gets them he will know 
how we love him. To use O. Henry's immortal 
joke, we have days of Damon and Knights of 
Pythias writing those uninked letters to Bill. 
A curious thought has come to us. Perhaps it 
would be better if we never saw Bill again. 
It is very difficult to talk to a man when you 
like him so much. It is much easier to write 
in the sweet fantastic strain. We are so in- 
articulate when face to face. If Bill comes to 
town we will leave word that we have gone 
away. Good old Bill! He will always be a 
precious memory. 

A few days later a sudden frenzy sweeps 
over us, and though we have many pressing 

[39] 



Mince Pie 

matters on hand, we mobilize pen and paper and 
literary shock troops and prepare to hurl sev- 
eral battalions at Bill. But, strangely enough, 
our utterance seems stilted and stiff. We have 
nothing to say. My dear Bill, we begin, it 
seems a long time since we heard from you. 
Why don't you write? We still love you, in 
spite of all your shortcomings. 

That doesn't seem very cordial. We muse 
over the pen and nothing comes. Bursting with 
affection, we are unable to say a word. 

Just then the phone rings. "Hello?" we 
say. 

It is Bill, come to town unexpectedly. 

"Good old fish !" we cry, ecstatic. "Meet 
you at the corner of Tenth and Chestnut in 
five minutes." 

We tear up the unfinished letter. Bill will 
never know how much we love him. Perhaps 
it is just as well. It is very embarrassing to 
have your friends know how you feel about 
them. When we meet him we will be a little 
bit on our guard. It would not be well to be 
betrayed into any extravagance of cordiality. 

And perhaps a not altogether false little 
story could be written about a man who never 
visited those most dear to him, because it panged 
him so to say good-bye when he had to leave. 

[40] 



A LETTER TO FATHER TIME 

(New Year's Eve) 

DEAR Father Time — This is your night of 
triumph, and it seems only fair to pay you 
a little tribute. Some people, in a noble mood 
of bravado, consider New Year's Eve an occa- 
sion of festivity. Long, long in advance they 
reserve a table at their favorite cafe; and be- 
comingly habited in boiled shirts or gowns of 
the lowest visibility, and well armed with a 
commodity which is said to be synonymous with 
yourself — money — they seek to outwit you by 
crowding a month of merriment into half a 
dozen hours. Yet their victory is brief and 
fallacious, for if hours spin too fast by night 
they will move grindingly on the axle the next 
morning. None of us can beat you in the 
end. Even the hat-check boy grows old, be- 
comes gray and dies at last babbling of green- 
backs. 

To my own taste, old Time, it is more agree- 
able to make this evening a season of gruesome 
brooding. Morosely I survey the faults and 

[41] 



Mince Pie 

follies of my last year. I am grown too canny 
to pour the new wine of good resolution into 
the old bottles of my imperfect humors. But I 
get a certain grim satisfaction in thinking how 
we all — every human being of us — share alike 
in bondage to your oppression. There is the 
only true and complete democracy, the only 
absolute brotherhood of man. The great ones 
of the earth — Charley Chaplin and Douglas 
Fairbanks, General Pershing and Miss Amy 
Lowell — all these are in service to the same 
tyranny. Day after day slips or jolts past, 
joins the Great Majority; suddenly we wake 
with a start to find that the best of it is gone 
by. Surely it seems but a day ago that Steven- 
son set out to write a little book that was to be 
called "Life at Twenty-five" — before he got it 
written he was long past the delectable age — 
and now we rub our eyes and see he has been 
dead longer than the span of life he then so de- 
lightfully contemplated. If there is one medi- 
tation common to every adult on this globe it 
is this, so variously phrased, "Well, bo, Time 
sure does hustle." 

Some of them have scurvily entreated you, 
old Time ! The thief of youth, they have called 
you; a highwayman, a gipsy, a grim reaper. 
It seems a little unfair. For you have your 
kindly moods, too. Without your gentle pas- 



A Letter to Father Time 

sage where were Memory, the sweetest of 
lesser pleasures ? You are the only medicine for 
many a woe, many a sore heart. And surely you 
have a right to reap where you alone have sown ? 
Our strength, our wit, our comeliness, all those 
virtues and graces that you pilfer with such 
gentle hand, did you not give them to us in the 
first place? Give, do I say? Nay, we knew, 
even as we clutched them, they were but a loan. 
And the great immortality of the race endures, 
for every day that we see taken away from our- 
selves we see added to our children or our 
grandchildren. It was Shakespeare, who 
thought a great deal about you, who put it 
best: 

Nativity, once in the main of light, 

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, 
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight 

And Time that gave doth now his gift confound — > 

It is to be hoped, my dear Time, that you 
have read Shakespeare's sonnets, because they 
will teach you a deal about the dignity of your 
career, and also suggest to you the only way 
we have of keeping up with you. There is no 
way of outwitting Time, Shakespeare tells his 
young friend, "Save breed to brave him when 
he takes thee hence." Or, as a poor bungling 
parodist revamped it: 

[48], 



Mince Pie 

Pep is the stuff to put Old Time on skids — 
Pep in your copy, yes, and lots of kids. 

It is true that Shakespeare hints another way 
of doing you in, which is to write sonnets as 
good as his. This way, needless to add, is 
open to few. 

Well, my dear Time, you are not going to 
fool me into making myself ridiculous this New 
Year's Eve with a lot of bonny but impossible 
resolutions. I know that you are playing with 
me just as a cat plays with a mouse; yet even 
the most piteous mousekin sometimes causes 
his tormentor surprise or disappointment by 
getting under a bureau or behind the stove, 
where, for the moment, she cannot paw him. 
Every now and then, with a little luck, I shall 
pull off just such a scurry into temporary im- 
mortality. It may come by reading Dickens 
or by seeing a sunset, or by lunching with 
friends, or by forgetting to wind the alarm 
clock, or by contemplating the rosy little pate 
of my daughter, who is still only a nine days' 
wonder — so young that she doesn't even know 
what you are doing to her. But you are not 
going to have the laugh on me by luring me 
into resolutions. I know my weaknesses. I 
know that I shall probably continue to annoy 
newsdealers by reading the magazines on the 
[44] 



A Letter to Father Time 

stalls instead of buying them; that I shall put 
off having my hair cut; drop tobacco cinders on 
my waistcoat; feel bored at the idea of having 
to shave and get dressed; be nervous when the 
gas burner pops when turned off; buy more 
Liberty Bonds than I can afford and have to 
hock them at a grievous loss. I shall continue 
to be pleasant to insurance agents, from sheer 




lack of manhood; and to keep library books 
out over the date and so incur a fine. My only 
hope, you see, is resolutely to determine to per- 
sist in these failings. Then, by sheer pervers- 
ity, I may grow out of them. 

What avail, indeed, for any of us to make 
good resolutions when one contemplates the 
grand pageant of human frailty ? Observe what 
I noticed the other day in the Lost and Found 
column of the New York Times: 

[45] 



Mince Pie 

LOST — Hotel Imperial lavatory, set of teeth. Call 
or communicate Flint, 134 East 43d street. Re- 
ward. 

Surely, if Mr. Flint could not remember to 
keep his teeth in his mouth, or if any one else 
was so basely whimsical as to juggle them away 
from him, it may well teach us to be chary of 
extravagant hopes for the future. Even the 
League of Nations, when one contemplates the 
sad case of Mr. Flint, becomes a rather anemic 
safeguard. We had better keep Mr. Flint in 
mind through the New Year as a symbol of hu- 
man error and disappointment. And the best of 
it is, my dear Time, that you, too, may be a 
little careless. Perhaps one of these days you 
may doze a little and we shall steal a few hours 
of timeless bliss. Shall we see a little ad in 
the papers: 

LOST — Sixty valuable minutes, said to have been 
stolen by the unworthy human race. If found, 
please return to Father Time, and no questions 
asked. 

Well, my dear Time, we approach the Zero 
Hour. I hope you will have a Happy New 
Year, and conduct yourself with becoming re- 
straint. So live, my dear fellow, that we may 
say, "A good Time was enjoyed by all." As 
[46] 



A Letter to Father Time 

the hands of the clock go over the top and into 
the No Man's Land of the New Year, good 
luck to you ! 

Your obedient servant! 



im 



WHAT MEN LIVE BY 

WHAT a delicate and rare and gracious 
art is the art of conversation! With, 
what a dexterity and skill the bubble of speech 
must be maneuvered if mind is to meet and 
mingle with mind. 

There is no sadder disappointment than to 
realize that a conversation has been a complete 
failure. By which we mean that it has failed in 
blending or isolating for contrast the ideas, 
opinions and surmises of two eager minds. So 
often a conversation is shipwrecked by the very 
eagerness of one member to contribute. There 
must be give and take, parry and thrust, pa- 
tience to hear and judgment to utter. How 
uneasy is the qualm as one looks back on an 
hour's talk and sees that the opportunity was 
wasted; the precious instant of intercourse gone 
forever: the secrets of the heart still incom- 
municate ! Perhaps we were too anxious to 
hurry the moment, to enforce our own theory, 
to adduce instance from our own experience. 
Perhaps we were not patient enough to wait 
[48] 



What Men Live By 

until our friend could express himself with 
ease and happiness. Perhaps we squandered 
the dialogue in tangent topics, in a multitude 
of irrelevances. 

How few, how few are those gifted for real 
talk! There are fine merry fellows, full of 
mirth and shrewdly minded observation, who 
will not abide by one topic, who must always 
be lashing out upon some new byroad, snatching 
at every bush they pass. They are too excit- 




able, too ungoverned for the joys of patient 
intercourse. Talk is so solemn a rite it should 
be approached with prayer and must be con- 
ducted with nicety and forbearance. What 
steadiness and sympathy are needed if the 
thread of thought is to be unwound without 
tangles or snapping! What forbearance, while 
each of the pair, after tentative gropings here 
and yonder, feels his way toward truth as he 
sees it. So often two in talk are like men 
standing back to back, each trying to describe 
to the other what he sees and disputing because 

[49] 



Mince Pie 

their visions do not tally. It takes a little time 
for minds to turn face to face. 

Very often conversations are better among 
three than between two, for the reason that 
then one of the trio is always, unconsciously, 
acting as umpire, interposing fair play, recall- 
ing wandering wits to the nub of the argu- 
ment, seeing that the aggressiveness of one does 
no foul to the reticence of another. Talk in 
twos may, alas ! fall into speaker and listener : 
talk in threes rarely does so. 

It is little realized how slowly, how pain- 
fully, we approach the expression of truth. We 
are so variable, so anxious to be polite, and 
alternately swayed by caution or anger. Our 
mind oscillates like a pendulum: it takes some 
time for it to come to rest. And then, the 
proper allowance and correction has to be made 
for our individual vibrations that prevent ac- 
curacy. Even the compass needle doesn't point 
the true north, but only the magnetic north. 
Similarly our minds at best can but indicate 
magnetic truth, and are distorted by many 
things that act as iron filings do on the com- 
pass. The necessity of holding one's job: what 
an iron filing that is on the compass card of 
a man's brain ! 

We are all afraid of truth: we keep a bat- 
talion of our pet prejudices and precautions 
[50] 



What Men Live By 

ready to throw into the argument as shock 
troops, rather than let our fortress of Truth 
be stormed. We have smoke bombs and decoy 
ships and all manner of cunning colorizations 
by which we conceal our innards from our 
friends, and even from ourselves. How we 
fume and fidget, how we bustle and dodge rather 
than commit ourselves. 

In days of hurry and complication, in the 
incessant pressure of human problems that 
thrust our days behind us, does one never dream 
of a way of life in which talk would be honored 
and exalted to its proper place in the sun? 
What a zest there is in that intimate unre- 
served exchange of thought, in the pursuit of 
the magical blue bird of joy and human satis- 
faction that may be seen flitting distantly 
through the branches of life. It was a sad 
thing for the world when it grew so busy that 
men had no time to talk. There are such 
treasures of knowledge and compassion in the 
minds of our friends, could we only have time 
to talk them out of their shy quarries. If we 
had our way, we would set aside one day a 
week for talking. In fact, we would reorganize 
the week altogether. We would have one day 
for Worship (let each man devote it to wor- 
ship of whatever he holds dearest) ; one day 
for Work; one day for Play (probably fishing) ; 

[51] 



Mince Pie 

one day for Talking ; one day for Reading, and 
one day for Smoking and Thinking. That 
would leave one day for Resting, and (inci- 
dentally) interviewing employers. 

The best week of our life was one in which 
we did nothing but talk. We spent it with a 
delightful gentleman who has a little bungalow 
on the shore of a lake in Pike County. He had 
a, great many books and cigars, both of which 
are conversational stimulants. We used to lie 
out on the edge of the lake, in our oldest trous- 
ers, and talk. We discussed ever so many sub- 
jects; in all of them he knew immensely more 
than we did. We built up a complete philoso- 
phy of indolence and good will, according to 
Food and Sleep and Swimming their proper 
share of homage. We rose at 10 in the morn- 
ing and began talking; we talked all day and 
until 3 o'clock at night. Then we went to bed 
and regained strength and combativeness for 
the coming day. Never was a week better 
spent. We committed no crimes, planned no 
secret treaties, devised no annexations or indem- 
nities. We envied no one. We examined the 
entire world and found it worth while. Mean- 
while our wives, who were watching (perhaps 
with a little quiet indignation) from the veran- 
da, kept on asking us, "What on earth do you 
talk about?" 
[52] 



What Men Live By 

Bless their hearts, men don't have to have 
anything to talk about. They just talk. 

And there is only one rule for being a good 
talker: learn how to listen. 



[S3] 



THE UNNATURAL NATURALIST 

IT gives us a great deal of pleasure to an- 
nounce., officially, that spring has arrived. 

Our statement is not based on any irrelevant 
data as to equinoxes or bluebirds or bock-beer 
signs, but is derived from the deepest authority 
we know anything about, our subconscious self. 
We remember that some philosopher, perhaps 
it was Professor James, suggested that indi- 
viduals are simply peaks of self-consciousness 
rising out of the vast ocean of collective human 
Mind in which we all swim, and are, at bottom, 
one. Whenever we have to decide any im- 
portant matter, such as when to get our hair 
cut and whether to pay a bill or not, and 
whether to call for the check or let the other 
fellow do so, we don't attempt to harass our 
conscious volition with these decisions. We rely 
on our subconscious and instinctive person, and 
for better or worse we have to trust to its right- 
eousness and good sense. We just find our- 
self doing something and we carry on and hope 
:it is for the best. 

From this deep abyss of subconsciousness we 
[54] 



The Unnatural Naturalist 

learn that it is spring. The mottled goosebone 
of the Allentown prophet is no more meteoro- 
logically accurate than our subconscience. And 
this is how it works. 

Once a year, about the approach of the ver- 
nal equinox or the seedsman's catalogue, we 
wake up at 6 o'clock in the morning. This is 
an immediate warning and apprisement that 
something is adrift. Three hundred and sixty- 
four days in the year we wake, placidly enough, 
at seven-ten, ten minutes after the alarm clock 
has jangled. But on this particular day, 
whether it be the end of February or the mid- 
dle of March, we wake with the old recogniz- 
able nostalgia. It is the last polyp or vestige 
of our anthropomorphic and primal self, trail- 
ing its pathetic little wisp of glory for the one 
day of the whole calendar. All the rest of the 
year we are the plodding percheron of com- 
merce, patiently tugging our wain; but on that 
morning there wambles back, for the nonce, 
the pang of Eden. We wake at 6 o'clock; it 
is a blue and golden morning and we feel it 
imperative to get outdoors as quickly as pos- 
sible. Not for an instant do we feel the cus- 
tomary respectable and sanctioned desire to kiss 
the sheets yet an hour or so. The traipsing, 
trolloping humor of spring is in our veins; we 
feel that we must be about felling an aurochs; 

[55] 



Mince Pie 

or a narwhal for breakfast. We leap into our 
clothes and hurry downstairs and out of the 
front door and skirmish round the house to see 
and smell and feel. 

It is spring. It is unmistakably spring, be- 
cause the pewit bushes are budding and on 
yonder aspen we can hear a forsythia bursting 
into song. It is spring, when the feet of the 
floorwalker pain him and smoking-car windows 
have to be pried open with chisels. We skip 
lightheartedly round the house to see if those 
bobolink bulbs we planted are showing any signs 
yet, and discover the whisk brush that fell out 
of the window last November. And then the 
newsboy comes along the street and sees us 
prancing about and we feel sheepish and 
ashamed and hurry indoors again. 

There may still be blizzards and frozen 
plumbings and tumbles on icy pavements, but 
when that morning of annunciation has come 
to us we know that winter is truly dead, even 
though his ghost may walk and gibber once or 
twice. The sweet urge of the new season has 
rippled up through the oceanic depths of our 
subconsciousness, and we are aware of the ris- 
ing tide. Like Mr. Wordsworth we feel that 
we are wiser than we know. (Perhaps we have 
misquoted that, but let it stand.) 

There are other troubles that spring brings 
[56] 



The Unnatural Naturalist 

us. We are pitifully ashamed of our ignorance 
of nature, and though we try to hide it we keep 
getting tripped up. About this time of year 
inquisitive persons are always asking us : "Have 
you heard any song sparrows yet?" or "Are 
there any robins out your way?" or "When do 
the laburnums begin to nest out in Marathon?" 
Now we really can't tell these people our true 




feeling, which is that we do not believe in peek- 
ing in on the privacy of the laburnums or any 
other songsters. It seems to us really immodest 
to keep on spying on the birds in that way. And 
as for the bushes and trees, what we want to 
know is, How does one ever get to know them? 
How do you find out which is an alder and 
what is an elm? Or a narcissus and a hyacinth,! 
does any one really know them apart? We 
think it's all a bluff. And jonquils. There was 
a nest of them on our porch, we are told, but 

[57] 



Mince Pie 

we didn't think it any business of ours to bother 
them. Let nature alone and she'll let you 
alone. 

But there is a pettifogging cult about that 
says you ought to know these things; more- 
over, children keep on asking one. We always 
answer at random and say it's a wagtail or a 
flowing shrike or a female magnolia. We were 
brought up in the country and learned that first 
principle of good manners, which is to let birds 
and flowers and animals go on about their own 
affairs without pestering them by asking them 
their names and addresses. Surely that's what 
Shakespeare meant by saying a rose by any 
other name will smell as sweet. We can enjoy 
a rose just as much as any one, even if we 
may think it's a hydrangea. 

And then we are much too busy to worry 
about robins and bluebirds and other poultry 
of that sort. Of course, if we see one hanging 
about the lawn and it looks hungry we have 
decency enough to throw out a bone or some- 
thing for it, but after all we have a lot o£ 
troubles of our own to bother about. We are 
short-sighted, too, and if we try to get near 
enough to see if it is a robin or only a ban- 
danna some one has dropped, why either it 
flies away before we get there or it does turn 
out to be a bandanna or a clothespin. One of 
[58] 



The Unnatural Naturalist 

our friends kept on talking about a Baltimore 
oriole she had seen near our house, and de- 
scribed it as a beautiful yellowish fowl. We 
felt quite ashamed to be so ignorant, and when 
one day we thought we saw one near the front 
porch we left what we were doing, which was 
writing a check for the coal man, and went 
out to stalk it. After much maneuvering we 
got near, made a dash — and it was a banana 
peel! The oriole had gone back to Baltimore 
the day before. 

We love to read about the birds and flowers 
and shrubs and insects in poetry, and it makes 
us very happy to know they are all round us, 
innocent little things like mice and centipedes 
and goldenrods (until hay fever time), but as 
for prying into their affairs we simply won't 
do it. 



[59] 



SITTING IN THE BARBER'S CHAIR 

ONCE every ten weeks or so we get our 
hair cut. 

We are not generally parsimonious of our 
employer's time, but somehow we do hate to 
squander that thirty-three minutes, which is the 
exact chronicide involved in despoiling our skull 
of a ten weeks' garner. If we were to have our 
hair cut at the end of eight weeks the shearing 
would take only thirty-one minutes; but we 
can never bring ourselves to rob our employer 
of that much time until we reckon he is really 
losing prestige by our unkempt appearance. 
Of course, we believe in having our hair cut 
during office hours. That is the only device 
we know to make the hateful operation toler- 
able. 

To the times mentioned above should be added 
fifteen seconds, which is the slice of eternity 
needed to trim, prune and chasten our mustache, 
which is not a large group of foliage. 

We knew a traveling man who never got his 
hair cut except when he was on the road, which 
permitted him to include the transaction in his 
[60] 



Sitting in the Barber's Chair 

expense account; but somehow it seems to us 
more ethical to steal time than to steal money. 

We like to view this whole matter in a philo- 
sophical and ultra-pragmatic way. Some ob- 
servers have hazarded that our postponement 
of haircuts is due to mere lethargy and inertia, 
hut that is not so. Every time we get our locks 
shorn our wife tells us that we have got them 
too short. She says that our head has a very 
homely and bourgeois bullet shape, a sort of 
pithecanthropoid contour, which is revealed by 
a close trim. After five weeks' growth, how- 
ever, we begin to look quite distinguished. The 
difficulty then is to ascertain just when the law 
of diminishing returns comes into play. When 
do we cease to look distinguished and begin 
to appear merely slovenly? Careful study has 
taught us that this begins to take place at the 
end of sixty-five days, in warm weather. Add 
five days or so for natural procrastination and 
devilment, and we have seventy days interval, 
which we have posited as the ideal orbit for 
our tonsorial ecstasies. 

When at last we have hounded ourself into 
robbing our employer of those thirty-three min- 
utes, plus fifteen seconds for you know what, 
we find ourself in the barber's chair. Despair- 
ingly we gaze about at the little blue flasks with 
flowers enameled on them; at the piles of clean 

[61] 



Mince Pie 

towels ; at the bottles of mandrake essence which 
we shall presently have to affirm or deny. Un- 
der any other circumstances we should deeply 
enjoy a half hour spent in a comfortable chair, 
with nothing to do but do nothing. Our bar- 
ber is a delightful fellow; he looks benign and 
does not prattle; he respects the lobes of our 
ears and other vulnerabilia. But for some in- 
scrutable reason we feel strangely ill at ease 
in his chair. We can't think of anything to 
think about. Blankly we brood in the hope of 
catching the hem of some intimation of im- 
mortality. But no, there is nothing to do but 
sit there, useless as an incubator with no eggs 
in it. The processes of wasting and decay are 
hurrying us rapidly to a pauperish grave, every 
instant brings us closer to a notice in the obit 
column, and yet we sit and sit without two 
worthy thoughts to rub against each other. 

Oh, the poverty of mortal mind, the sad mea- 
gerness of the human soul ! Here we are, a 
vital, breathing entity, transformed to a mere 
chemical carcass by the bleak magic of the 
barber's chair. In our anatomy of melancholy 
there are no such atrabiliar moments as those 
thirty-three (and a quarter) minutes once every 
ten weeks. Roughly speaking, we spend three 
hours of this living death every year. 

And yet, perhaps it is worth it, for what a 
[62] 



Sitting in the Barber's Chair 

jocund and pantheistic merriment possesses us 
when we escape from the shop ! Bay-rummed, 
powdered^ shorn, brisk and perfumed, we fare 
down the street exhaling the syrups of Cathay. 
Once more we can take our rightful place 
among aggressive and well-groomed men; we 
can look in the face without blenching those 
human leviathans who are ever creased, razored, 
and white-margined as to vest. We are a man 
among men and our untethered mind jostles the 
stars. We have had our hair cut, and no 
matter what gross contours our cropped skull 
may display to wives or ethnologists, we are 
a free man for ten dear weeks. 



[63] 



BROWN EYES AND EQUINOXES 

WHAT is an equinox?" said Titania. 
I pretended not to hear her and prayed 
fervently that the inquiry would pass from her 
mind. Sometimes her questions, if ignored, are 
effaced by some other thought that possesses 
her active brain. I rattled my paper briskly 
and kept well behind it. 

"Yes," I murmured husbandly, "delicious, de- 
licious ! My dear, you certainly plan the most 
delightful meals." Meanwhile I was glancing 
feverishly at the daily Quiz column to see if 
that noble cascade of popular information might 
give any help. It did not. 

Clear brown eyes looked across the table 
gravely. I could feel them through the spring 
overcoat ads. 

"What is an equinox?" 

"I think I must have left my matches up- 
stairs," I said, and went up to look for them. 
I stayed aloft ten minutes and hoped that by 
that time she would have passed on to some 
other topic. I did not waste my time, however; 
I looked everywhere for the "Children's Book 
[64] 



Brown Eyes and Equinoxes 

of a Million Reasons/' until I remembered it 
was under the dining-room table taking the 
place of a missing caster. 

When I slunk into the living room again I 
hastily suggested a game of double Canfield, 
but Titania's brow was still perplexed. Look- 
ing across at me with that direct brown gaze 
that would compel even a milliner to relent, she 
asked : 

"What is an equinox?" 

I tried to pass it off flippantly. 

"A kind of alarm clock," I said, "that lets 
the bulbs and bushes know it's time to get up." 

"No; but honestly, Bob," she said, "I want 
to know. It's something about an equal day 
and an equal night, isn't it?" 

"At the equinox," I said sternly, hoping to 
overawe her, "the day and the night are of 
equal duration. But only for one night. On 
the following day the sun, declining in peri- 
helion, produces the customary inequality. The 
usual working day is much longer than the 
night of relaxation that follows it, as every 
toiler knows." 

"Yes," she said thoughtfully, "but how does 
it work? It says something in this article 
about the days getting longer in the Northern 
Hemisphere, while they are getting shorter in 
the Southern." 

[65] 



Mince Pie 

"Of course/' I agreed, "conditions are totally- 
different south of Mason and Dixon's line. But 
as far as we are concerned here, the sun, re- 
volving round the earth, casts a beneficent shad- 
ow, which is generally regarded as the time to 
quit work. This shadow " 

"I thought the earth revolved round the sun," 
she said. "Wasn't that what Galileo proved?" 

"He was afterward discovered to be mis- 
taken," I said. "That was what caused all 
the trouble." 

"What trouble?" she asked, much interested. 

"Why, he and Socrates had to take hemlock 
or they were drowned in a butt of malmsey, I 
really forget which." 

"Well, after the equinox," said Titania, "do 
the days get longer?" 

"They do," I said; "in order to permit the 
double-headers. And now that daylight saving 
is to go into effect, equinoxes won't be neces- 
sary any more. Very likely the pan-Russian 
Soviets, or President Wilson, or somebody, will 
abolish them." 

"June 21 is the longest day in the year, isn't 
it?" 

"The day before pay-day is always the long- 
est day." 

"And the night the cook goes out is always 
[66] 



Brown Eyes and Equinoxes 

the longest night/' she retorted, catching the. 
spirit of the game. 

"Some day," I threatened her, "the earth will 
stop rotating on its orbit, or its axis, or what- 
ever it is, and then we will be like the moon,, 
divided into two hostile hemispheres, one per- 
petual day and the other eternal night." 

She did not seem alarmed. "Yes, and I 
bet I know which one you'll emigrate to," she 
said. "But how about the equinoctial gales? 
Why should there be gales just then?" 

I had forgot about the equinoctial gales, and 
this caught me unawares. 

"That was an old tradition of the Phoenician 
mariners," I said, "but the invention of latitude 
and longitude made them unnecessary. They 
have fallen into disrepute. Dead reckoning 
killed them." 

"And the precession of the equinoxes?" she 
asked, turning back to her magazine. 

This was a poser, but I rallied stoutly. 
"Well," I said, "you see, there are two equi- 
noxes a year, the vernal and the autumnal. 
They are well known by coal dealers. The 
first one is when he delivers the coal and the 
second is when he gets paid. Two of them a 
year, you see, in the course of a million years 
or so, makes quite a majestic series. That is 
why they call it a procession." 

[67] 



Mince Pie 

Titania looked at me and gradually her face 
broke up into a charming aurora borealis of 
laughter. 

"I don't believe you know any more about 
the old things than I do," she said. 

And the worst of it is, I think she was right. 



[68] 



163 INNOCENT OLD MEN 

I FOUND Titania looking severely at her 
watch, which is a queer little gold disk 
about the size of a waistcoat button, swinging 
under her chin by a thin golden chain. Tita- 
nia's methods of winding, setting and regu- 
lating that watch have always been a mystery 
to me. She frequently knows what the right 
time is, but how she deduces it from the data 
given by the hands of her timepiece I can't 
guess. It's something like this : She looks at 
the watch and notes what it says. Then she 
deducts ten minutes, because she remembers it 
is ten minutes fast. Then she performs some 
complicated calculation connected with when 
the baby had his bath, and how long ago she 
heard the church bells chime; to this result she 
adds five minutes to allow for leeway. Then 
she goes to the phone and asks Central the 
time. 

"Hullo," I said; "what's wrong?" 
"I'm wondering about this daylight-saving 
business," she said. "You know, I think it's 
all a piece of Bolshevik propaganda to get us 

[69] 



Mince Pie 

-confused and encourage anarchy. All the 
women in Marathon are talking about it and 
neglecting their knitting. Junior's bath was 
half an hour late today because Mrs. Ben- 
venuto called me up to talk about daylight 
saving. She says her cook has threatened to 
leave if she has to get up an hour earlier in 
the morning. I was just wondering how to 
adjust my watch to the new conditions." 

"It's perfectly simple/' I said. "Put your 
watch ahead one hour, and then go through the 
same logarithms you always do." 

"Put it ahead?" asked Titania. "Mrs. Bor- 
gia says we have to put the clock bach an hour. 
;She is fearfully worried about it. She says 
suppose she has something in the oven when 
the clock is put back, it will be an hour over- 
done and burned to a crisp when the kitchen 
clock catches up again." 

"Mrs. Borgia is wrong," I said. "The clocks 
are to be put ahead one hour. At 2 o'clock on 
Easter morning they are to be turned on to 3 
o'clock. Mrs. Borgia certainly won't have any- 
thing in the oven at that time of night. You 
see, we are to pretend that 2 o'clock is really 3 
o'clock, and when we get up at 7 o'clock it 
will really be 6 o'clock. We are deliberately 
fooling ourselves in order to get an hour more 
oi daylight." 
[70] 



163 Innocent Old Men 

"I have an idea/' she said, "that you won't 
get up at 7 that morning." 

"It is quite possible," I said, "because I in- 
tend to stay up until 2 a. m. that morning in 
order to be exactly correct in changing our 
timepieces. No one shall accuse me of being 
a time slacker." 

Titania was wrinkling her brow. "But how 
about that lost hour?" she said. "What hap- 
pens to it? I don't see how we can just throw 
an hour away like that. Time goes on just 
the same. How can we afford to shorten our 
lives so ruthlessly? It's murder, that's what 
it is ! I told you it was a Bolshevik plot. Just 
think; there are a hundred million Americans. 
Moving on the clock that way brings each of 
us one hour nearer our graves. That is to 
say, we are throwing away 100,000,000 hours." 

She seized a pencil and a sheet of paper and 
went through some calculations. 

"There are 8,760 hours in a year," she said. 
"Reckoning seventy years a lifetime, there are 
613,200 hours in each person's life. Now, will 
you please divide that into a hundred million 
for me? I'm not good at long division." 

With docility I did so, and reported the re- 
sult. 

"About 163," I said. 

"There you are!" she exclaimed triumphant- 

[71] 



Mince Pie 

ly. "Throwing away all that perfectly good 
time amounts simply to murdering 163 harm- 
less old men of seventy, or 326 able-bodied men 
of thirty-five, or 1,630 innocent little children 
of seven. If that isn't atrocity, what is? I 
think Mr. Hoover or Admiral Grayson, or some- 
body ought to be prosecuted." 

I was aghast at this awful result. Then an 
idea struck me, and I took the pencil and be- 
gan to figure on my own account. 

"Look here, Titania," I said. "Not so fast. 
Moving the clock ahead doesn't really bring 
those people any nearer their graves. What it 
does do is bring the ratification of the Peace 
Treaty sooner, which is a fine thing. By de- 
leting a hundred million hours we shorten Sena- 
tor Borah's speeches against the League by 
11,410 years. That's very encouraging." 

"According to that way of reckoning," she 
said with sarcasm, "Mr. Borah's term must 
have expired about 11,000 years ago." 

"My dear Titania," I said, "the ways of the 
Government may seem inscrutable, but we have 
got to follow them with faith. If Mr. Wilson 
tells us to murder 163 fine old men in elastic- 
sided boots we must simply do it, that's all. 
Peace is a dreadful thing. We have got to meet 
the Germans on their own ground. They 
adopted this daylight-saving measure years ago. 

[7*] 



163 Innocent Old Men 

They call it Sonnenuntergangverderbenpraxis, 
I believe. After all, it is only a temporary 
measure, because in the fall, when the daylight 
hours get shorter, we shall have to turn the 
clocks back a couple of hours in order to com- 
pensate the gas and electric light companies 
for all the money they will have lost. That 
will bring those 163 old gentlemen to life again 
and double their remaining term of years to 
make up for their temporary effacement. They 
are patriotic hostages to Time for the summer 
only. You must remember that time is only a 
philosophical abstraction, with no real or tangi- 
ble existence, and we have a right to do what- 
ever we want with it." 

"I will remind you of that," she said, "at 
getting-up time on Sunday morning. I still 
think that if we are going to monkey with the 
clocks at all it would be better to turn them 
backward instead of forward. Certainly that 
would bring you home from the club a little 
earlier." 

"My dear," I said, "we are in the Govern- 
ment's hands. A little later we may be put on 
time rations, just as we are on food rations. 
We may have time cards to encourage thrift in 
saving time. Every time we save an hour we 
will get a little stamp to show for it. When we 
fill out a whole card we will be entitled to call 

[73] 



Mince Pie 

ourselves a month younger than we are. Tell 
that to Mrs. Borgia ; it will reconcile her." 

A lusty uproar made itself heard upstairs, 
and Titania gave a little scream. "Heavens !" she 
cried. "Here I am talking with you and Jun- 
ior's bottle is half an hour late. I don't care 
what Mr. Wilson does to the clocks; he won't 
be able to fool Junior. He knows when it's 
time for meals. Won't you call up Central 
and find out the exact time?" 



[74J 



A TRAGIC SMELL IN MARATHON 

Marathon, Pa., April 2. 

THIS is a very embarrassing time of year 
for us. Every morning when we get on 
the 8:13 train at Marathon Bill Stites or Fred 
Myers or Hank Harris or some other groundsel 
philosopher on the Cinder and Bloodshot be- 
gins to chivvy us about our garden. "Have you 
planted anything yet?" they say. "Have you 
put litmus paper in the soil to test it for lime, 
potash and phosphorus? Have you got a har- 
row?" 

That sort of thing bothers us, because our 
ideas of cultivation are very primitive. We did 
go to the newsstand at the Reading Terminal 
and try to buy a Litmus paper, but the agent 
didn't have any. He says he doesn't carry the 
Jersey papers. So we buried some old copies 
of the Philistine in the garden, thinking that 
would strengthen up the soil a bit. This busi- 
ness of nourishing the soil seems grotesque. It's 
hard enough to feed the family, let alone throw- 
ing away good money on feeding the land. Our 
idea about soil is that it ought to feed itself. 

[75] 



Mince Pie 

Our garden ought to be lusty enough to raise 
the few beans and beets and blisters we aspire 
to. We have been out looking at the soil. It 
looks fairly potent and certainly it goes a long 
way down. There are quite a lot of broken 
magnesia bottles and old shinbones scattered 
through it, and they ought to help along. The 
topsoil and the humus may be a little mixed, 
but we are not going to sort them out by hand. 

Our method is to go out at twilight the first 
Sunday in April, about the time the cutworms 
go to roost, and take a sharp-pointed stick. We 
draw lines in the ground with this stick, pref- 
erably in a pleasant geometrical pattern that 
will confuse the birds and other observers. It 
is important not to do this until twilight, so 
that no robins or insects can watch you. Then 
we go back in the house and put on our old 
trousers, the pair that has holes in each pocket. 
We fill the pockets with the seed we want to 
plant and loiter slowly along the grooves we 
have made in the earth. The seed sifts down 
the trousers legs and spreads itself in the 
furrow far better than any mechanical drill 
could do it. The secret of gardening is to 
stick to nature's old appointed ways. Then we 
read a chapter of Bernard Shaw aloud, by 
candle light or lantern light. As soon as they 
hear the voice of Shaw all the vegetables dig 
[76] 



A Tragic Smell in Marathon 

themselves in. This saves going all along the 
rows with a shingle to pat down the topsoil 
or the humus or the magnesia bottles or what- 
ever else is uppermost. 

Fred says that certain vegetables — kohl-rabi 
and colanders, we think — extract nitrogen from 
the air and give it back to the soil. It may 
be so, but what has that to do with us? If 
our soil can't keep itself supplied with nitro- 




gen, that's its lookout. We don't need the 
nitrogen in the air. The baby isn't old enough 
to have warts yet. 

Hank says it's no use watering the garden 
from above. He says that watering from above 
lures the roots toward the surface and next 
day the hot sun kills them. The answer to 
that is that the rain comes from above, doesn't 
it? Roots have learned certain habits in the 
past million years and we haven't time to teach 
them to duck when it rains. Hank has some 

[77] 



Mince Pie 

irrigation plan which involves sinking tomato 
cans in the ground and filling them with wa- 
ter. 

Bill says it's dangerous to put arsenic on the 
plants, because it may kill the cook. He says 
nicotine or tobacco dust is far better. The 
answer to that is that we never put fertilizers 
on our garden, anyway. If we want to kill 
the cook there is a more direct method, and we 
reserve the tobacco for ourself . No cutworm 
shall get a blighty one from our cherished baccy 
pouch. 

Fred says we ought to have a wheel-bar- 
row; Hank swears by a mulching iron; Bill is 
all for cold frames. All three say that helle- 
bore is the best thing for sucking insects. We 
echo the expletive, with a different applica- 
tion. 

You see, we have no instinct for gardening. 
Some fellows, like Bill Stites, have a divinely 
implanted zest for the propagation of chard 
and rhubarb and self-blanching celery and 
kohl-rabi; they are kohl-rabid, we might say. 
They know just what to do when they see a 
weed; they can assassinate a weevil by just 
looking at it. But weevils and cabbage worms 
are unterrified by us. We can't tell a weed 
from a young onion. We never mulched any- 
[78] 



A Tragic Smell in Marathon 

thing in our life; we wouldn't know how to 
begin. 

But the deuce of it is, public opinion says 
that we must raise a garden. It is no use to 
hire a man to do it for us. However badly we 
may do it, patriotism demands that we monkey 
around with a garden of our own. We may get 
bitten by a snapping bean or routed by a ruta- 
baga or infected by a parsnip. But with Bill 
and those fellows at our heels we have just 
got to face it. Hellebore! 

What we want to know is, How do you ever 
find out all these things about vegetables? We 
bought an ounce of tomato seeds in despera- 
tion, and now Fred says "one ounce of tomato 
seeds will produce 3,000 plants. You should 
have bought two dozen plants instead of the 
seed." How does he know those things ? Hank 
says beans are very delicate and must not be 
handled while they are wet or they may get 
rusty. Again we ask, how does he know? 
Where do they learn these matters? Bill says 
that stones draw out the moisture from the 
soil and every stone in the garden should be 
removed by hand before we plant. We offered 
him twenty cents an hour to do it. 

The most tragic odor in the world hangs 
over Marathon these days; the smell of fresh- 
ly spaded earth. It is extolled by the poets 

[79] 



Mince Pie 

and all those happy sons of the pavement who 
know nothing about it. But here are we, who 
hardly know a loam from a lentil, breaking our 
back over seed catalogues. Public opinion may 
compel us to raise vegetables, but we are going 
to go about it our own way. If the stones are 
going to act like werewolves and suck the mois- 
ture from our soil, let them do so. We don't 
believe in thwarting nature. Maybe it will be a 
very wet summer and we shall have the laugh 
on Bill, who has carted away all his stones. 

And we should just like to see Bill Stites 
write a poem. We bet it wouldn't look as much 
like a poem as our beans look like beans. And 
as for Hank and Fred, they wouldn't even know 
how to begin to plant a poem! 



[80] 



BULLIED BY THE BIRDS 

Marathon, Pa., May 2. 

INSIST that the place for birds is in the 
air or on the bushy tops of trees or on 
smooth-shaven lawns. Let them twitter and 
strut on the greens of golf courses and intimi- 
date the tired business men. Let them peck 
cinders along the railroad track and keep the 
trains waiting. But really they have no right 
to take possession of a man's house as they 
have mine. 

The nesting season is a time of tyranny and 
oppression for those who live in Marathon. The 
birds are upon us like Hindenburg in Belgium. 
We go about on tiptoe, speaking in whispers, 
for fear of annoying them. It is all the fault 
of the Marathon Bird Club, which has offered 
all sorts of inducements to the fowls of the 
air to come and live in our suburb, quite for- 
getting that humble commuters have to live 
there, too. Birds have moved all the way 
from Wynnewood and Ambler and Chestnut 
Hill to enjoy the congenial air of Marathon 
and the informing little pamphlets of our club, 

[81] 



Mince Pie 

telling them just what to eat and which houses 
offer the best hospitality. All our dwellings 
are girt about with little villas made of con- 
densed milk boxes, but the feathered tyrants 
have grown too pernickety to inhabit these. 
They come closer still, and make our homes 
their own. They take the grossest liberties. 

I am fond of birds, but I think the line 
must be drawn somewhere. The clothes-line, 
for instance. The other day Titania sent me 
out to put up a new clothesline; I found that 
a shrike or a barn swallow or some other veery 
had built a nest in the clothespin basket. That 
means we won't be able to hang out our laun- 
dry in the fresh Monday air and equally fresh 
Monday sunshine until the nesting season is 
over. 

Then there is a gross, fat, indiscreet robin 
that has taken a home in an evergreen or 
mimosa or banyan tree just under our veranda 
railing. It is an absurdly exposed, almost in- 
decently exposed position, for the confiden- 
tial family business she intends to carry on. 
The iceman and the butcher and the boy who 
brings up the Sunday ice cream from the 
apothecary can't help seeing those three big 
blue eggs she has laid. But, because she has 
nested there for the last three springs, while 
the house was unoccupied, she thinks she has 
[82] 



Bullied by the Birds 

a perpetual lease on that bush. She hotly re- 
sents the iceman and the butcher and the 
apothecary's boy, to say nothing of me. So 
these worthy merchants have to trail round a 
circuitous route, violating the neutral ground 
of a neighbor, in order to reach the house 
from behind and deliver their wares through 
the cellar. We none of us dare use the veranda 




at all for fear of frightening her, and I have 
given up having the morning paper delivered 
at the house because she made such shrill pro- 
test. 

Frightening her, do I say? Nay, it is rve 
who are frightened. I go round to the side 
of the house to prune my benzine bushes or 
to plant a mess of spinach and a profane star- 
ling or woodpecker bustles off her nest with 
shrewish outcry and lingers nearby to rail 

[83] 



Mince Pie 

at me. Abashed, I stealthily scuffle back to 
get a spade out of the tool bin and again that 
shrill scream of anger and outraged mother- 
hood. A throstle or a whippoorwill is raising 
a family in the gutter spout over the back 
kitchen. I go into the bathroom to shave and 
Titania whispers sharply, "You mustn't shave 
in there. There's a tomtit nesting in the shut- 
ter hinge and the light from your shaving mir- 
ror will make the poor little birds crosseyed 
when they're hatched." I try to shave in the 
dining-room and I find a sparrow's nest on 
the window sill. Finally I do my toilet in 
the coal, bin, even though there is a young 
squeaking bat down there. A bat is half mouse 
anyway, so Titania has less compassion for its 
feelings. Even if that bat grows up bow-legged 
on account of premature excitement, I have to 
shave somewhere. 

We can't play croquet at this time of year, 
because the lawn must be kept clear for the 
robins to quarry out worms. The sound of mal- 
let and ball frightens the worms and sends 
them underground, and then it's harder for 
the robins to find them. I suppose we really 
ought to keep a stringed orchestra playing in 
the garden to entice the worms to the surface. 
We have given up frying onions because the 
mother robins don't like the odor while they're 
[84] 



Bullied by the Birds 

raising a family. I love my toast crusts, but 
Titania takes them away from me for the 
blackbirds. "Now/' she says, "they're raising 
a family. You must be generous." 

If my garden doesn't amount to anything 
this year the birds will be my alibi. Titania 
makes me do my gardening in rubber-soled 
shoes so as not to disturb the birds when they 
are going to bed. (They begin yelping at 4 
a. m. right outside the window and never think 
of my slumbers.) The other evening I put 
on my planting trousers and was about to sow 
a specially fine pea I had brought home from 
town when Titania made signs from the win- 
dow. "You simply mustn't wear those trousers 
around the house in nesting season. Don't you 
know the birds are very sensitive just now?" 
And we have been paying board for our cat on 
Long Island for a whole year because the birds 
wouldn't like his society and plebeian ways. 

Marathon has come to a pretty pass, indeed, 
when the commuters are to be dispossessed in 
this way by a lot of birds, orioles and tom- 
tits and yellow-bellied nuthatches. Some of 
these days a wren will take it into its head to 
build a nest on the railroad track and we'll 
all have to walk to town. Or a chicken hawk 
will settle in our icebox and we'll starve to 
death. 

[85] 



Mince Pie 

As I have said before, I believe in keeping 
nature in its proper place. Birds belong in 
trees. I don't go twittering and fluffing about 
in oaks and chestnuts, perching on the birds' 
nest steps and getting in their way. And why 
should some swarthy robin, be she never so ma- 
tronly, swear at me if I set foot on my own 
front porch? 



rm 



A MESSAGE FOR BOONVILLE 

WHEN concorb pipes went up from a 
nickel to six cents, smoking traditions 
tottered. That was a year or more ago, but 
one can still recall the indignation written on 
the faces of nicotine-soaked gaffers who had 
been buying cobs at a jitney ever since Wash- 
ington used one to keep warm at Valley Forge. 
It was the supreme test of our determination 
to win the war: the price of Missouri meer- 
schaums went up 20 per cent and there was 
no insurrection. 

Yesterday we went out to buy our annual 
corncob, and were agreeably surprised to learn 
that the price is still six cents ; but our friend 
the tobacconist said that it may go up again 
soon, We took the treasure, gleaming yellow 
with fresh varnish, back to our kennel, and we 
are smoking it as we set down these words. A 
corncob is sadly hot and raw until it is well 
sooted, but the ultimate flavor is worth perse- 
cution. 

The corncob pipes we always buy come from 
Boonville, Mo., and we don't see why we 
shouldn't blow a little whiff of affection and 

[87] 



Mince Pie 

gratitude toward that excellent town. More- 
over, Boonville celebrated its centennial re- 
cently: it was founded in 1818. If the map is 
to be believed, it is on the southern bank of 
the Missouri River, which is there spanned by 
a very fine bridge; it is reached by two rail- 
roads (Missouri Pacific and M., K. and T.) and 
stands on a bluff 100 feet above the water. Ac- 
cording to the two works of reference nearest 
to our desk, its population is either 4252 or 
4377. Perhaps the former census omits the 
125 men of the town who are so benighted as 
to smoke briars or clays. 

Delightful town of Boonville, seat of Cooper 
County, you are well named. How great a 
boon you have conferred upon a troubled world ! 
Long after more ambitious towns have faded 
in the memory of man your quiet and soothing 
gift to humanity will make your name blessed. 
I like to imagine your shady streets, drows- 
ing in the summer sun, and the rural philoso- 
phers sitting on the verandas of your hotels or 
on the benches of Harley Park ("comprising 
fifteen acres" — New International Encyclo- 
pedia), looking out across the brown river and 
puffing clouds of sweet gray reek. Down by 
the livery stable on Main street (there must 
be a livery stable on Main street) I can see the 
old creaky, cane-bottomed chairs (with seats 
[88] 



A Message for Boonville 

punctured by too much philosophy) tilted 
against the sycamore trees, ready for the after- 
noon gossip and shag tobacco. I can imagine 
the small boys of Boonville fishing for catfish 
from the piers of the bridge or bathing down 
by the steamboat dock (if there is one), and 
yearning for the day when they, too, will be 
grown up and old enough to smoke corncobs. 
What is the subtle magic of a corncob pipe? 




It is never as sweet or as mellow as a well- 
seasoned briar, and yet it has a fascination all 
its own. It is equally dear to those who work 
hard and those who loaf with intensity. When 
you put your nose to the blackened mouth of 
the hot cob its odor is quite different from that 
fragrance of the crusted wooden bowl. There 
is a faint bitterness in it, a sour, plaintive 
aroma. It is a pipe that seems to call aloud 
for the accompaniment of beer and earnest 
argument on factional political matters. It is 

[89] 



Mince Pie 

also the pipe for solitary vigils of hard and 
concentrated work. It is the pipe that a man 
keeps in the drawer of his desk for savage 
hours of extra toil after the stenographer has 
powdered her nose and gone home. 

A corncob pipe is a humble badge of philoso- 
phy^ an evidence of tolerance and even humor. 
It requires patience and good cheer, for it is 
slow to "break in." Those who meditate 
bestial and brutal designs against the weak 
and innocent do not smoke it. Probably Hin- 
denburg never saw one. Missouri's reputation 
for incredulity may be due to the corncob habit. 
One who is accustomed to consider an argu- 
ment over a burning nest of tobacco, with the 
smoke fuming upward in a placid haze, will not 
accept any dogma too immediately. 

There is a singular affinity among those who 
smoke corncobs. A Missouri meerschaum 
whose bowl is browned and whose fiber stem is 
frayed and stringy with biting betrays a medi- 
tative and reasonable owner. He will have 
pondered all aspects of life and be equally 
ready to denounce any of them, but without 
bitterness. If you see a man on a street cor- 
ner smoking a cob it will be safe to ask him to 
watch the baby a minute while you slip around 
the corner. You would even be safe in asking 
[90] 



A Message for Boonville 

him to lend you a five. He will be safe, too, 
because he won't have it. 

Think, therefore, of the charm of a town 
where corncob pipes are the chief industry. 
Think of them stacked up in bright yellow 
piles in the warehouse. Think of the warm 
sun and the wholesome sweetness of broad acres 
that have grown into the pith of the cob. Think 
of the bright-eyed Missouri maidens who have 
turned and scooped and varnished and packed 
them. Think of the airy streets and wide pave- 
ments of Boonville, and the corner drug stores 
with their shining soda fountains and grape- 
juice bottles. Think of sitting out on that 
bluff" on a warm evening, watching the broad 
shimmer of the river slipping down from the 
sunset, and smoking a serene pipe while the 
local flappers walk in the coolness wearing 
crisp, swaying gingham dresses. That's the 
kind of town we like to think about. 



[91] 



MAKING MARATHON SAFE FOR THE 
URCHIN 

THE Urchin and I have been strolling about 
Marathon on Sunday mornings for more 
than a year, but not until the gasolineless Sab- 
baths supervened were we really able to ex- 
amine the village and see what it is like. Pre- 
viously we had been kept busy either dodging 
motors or admiring them as they sped by. 
Their rich dazzle of burnished enamel, the 
purring hum of their great tires, evokes ap- 
plause from the Urchin. He is learning, as 
he watches those flashing chariots, that life 
truly is almost as vivid as the advertisements 
in the Ladies' Home Journal, where the shim- 
mer of earthly pageant first was presented to 
him. 

Marathon is a village so genteel and comely 
that the Urchin and I would like to have some 
pictures of it for future generations, particu- 
larly as we see it on an autumn morning when, 
as I say, the motors are kenneled and the land- 
scape has ceased to vibrate. In the douce be- 
nignance of equinoctial sunshine we gaze about 
[92] 



Making Marathon Safe for the Urchin 

us with eyes of inventory. Where my obser- 
vation errs by too much sentiment the Urchin 
checks me by his cooler power of ratiocination. 

Marathon is a suburban Xanadu gently 
caressed by the train service of the Cinder and 
Bloodshot. It may be recognized as an aristo- 
cratic and patrician stronghold by the fact that 
while luxuries are readily obtainable (for in- 
stance, banana splits, or the latest novel by 
Enoch A. Bennett), necessaries are had only 
by prayer and advowson. The drug store will 
deliver ice cream to your very refrigerator, but 
it is impossible to get your garbage collected. 
The cook goes off for her Thursday evening 
in a taxi, but you will have to mend the roof, 
stanch the plumbing and curry the furnace with 
your own hands. There are ten trains to take 
you to town of an evening, but only two to 
bring you home. Yet going to town is a luxury, 
coming home is a necessity. The supply of 
grape juice seems almost unlimited, yet coal is 
to be had catch-as-catch-can. 

Another proof that Marathon is patrician at 
heart is that nothing is known by its right 
name! The drug store is a "pharmacy," Sun- 
day is "the Sabbath," a house is a "residence," 
a debt is a "balance due on bill rendered." A 
girls' school is a "young ladies' seminary." A 
Marathon man is not drafted, he is "inducted 

[93] 



Mince Pie 

into selective service." And the railway sta- 
tion has a porte cochere (with the correct ac- 
cent) instead of a carriage entrance. A fur- 
nace is (how erroneously!) called a "heater." 
Marathon people do not die — they "pass away." 
Even the cobbler, good fellow, has caught the 
trick; he calls his shop the " I talo- American 
Shoe Hospital." 

This is an innocent masquerade ! If Mara- 
thon prefers not to call a flivver a flivver, I 
shall not expostulate. And yet this quaint sub- 
terfuge should not be carried quite so far. 
Stone walls are made for sunny lounging; yet 
stone walls in Marathon are built with un- 
even vertical projections to discourage the 
sedentary. Nothing is more delightful than 
a dog; but there are no dogs in Marathon. 
They are all airedales or spaniels or mastiff's. 
If an ordinary dog should wag his tail up our 
street the airedales would cut him dead. Bless 
me, Nature herself has taken to the same in- 
sincerity. The landscape round Marathon is 
lovely, but it has itself well in hand. The hills 
all pretend to be gentle declivities. There is a 
beautiful little sheet of water, reflecting the 
trailery of willows, a green salute to the eye. 
In a robuster community it would be a swim- 
ming hole — but with us, an ornamental lake ! 
Only in one spot has Nature forgotten her- 
[94] 



Making Marathon Safe for the Urchin 

self and been so brusque and rough as to 
jut up a very sizable cliff. This is the loveliest 
thing in Marathon: sunlight and shadow break 
and angle in cubist magnificence among the 
oddly veined knobs and prisms of brown stone. 
Yet this cliff or quarry is by common consent 
taboo among us. It is our indelicacy, our in- 
decency. Such "residences" as are near mod- 
estly turn their kitchens toward it. Only the 
blacksmith and the gas tanks are hardy enough 
to face this nakedness of Mother Earth — they, 
and excellent Pat Lemon, Marathon's humblest 
and blackest citizen, who contemplates that 
rugged and honest beauty as he tills his gar-, 
den on the land abandoned by squeamish burgh- 
ers. That is our Aceldama, our Potter's Field, 
only approached by the athletic, who keep their 
eyes from Nature's indiscretion by vigorous sets 
of tennis in the purple shadow of the cliff. 

Life is queer ly inverted in Marathon. Na- 
ture has been so bullied and repressed that she 
fawns about us timidly. No well-conducted 
suburban shrubbery would think of assuming 
autumn tints before the ladies have got into 
their fall fashions. Indeed none of our chaste 
trees will even shed their leaves while any one 
is watching; and they crouch modestly in the 
shade of our massive garages. They have been 
taught their place. In Marathon it is a worse 

[95] 



Mince Pie 

sin to have your lawn uncut than to have your 
books or your hair uncut. I have been aware 
of indignant eyes because I let my back gar- 
den run wild. And yet I flatter myself it was 
not mere sloth. No! I want the Urchin to 
see what this savage, tempestuous world is like. 
What preparation for life is a village where 
Nature comes to heel like a spaniel? When a 
thunderstorm disorganizes our electric lights 
for an hour or so we feel it a personal affront. 
Let my rearward plot be a deep-tangled wild- 
wood where the happy Urchin may imagine 
something more ferocious lurking than a posse 
of radishes. Indeed, I hardly know whether 
Marathon is a safe place to bring up a child. 
How can he learn the horrors of drink in a vil- 
lage where there is no saloon? Or the sadness 
of the seven deadly sins where there is no 
movie? Or deference to his betters where the 
chauffeurs, in their withered leather legs, drive 
limousines to the drug store to buy expensive 
cigars, while their employers walk to the sta- 
tion puffing briar pipes? 

I had been hoping that the war would knock 
some of this topsy-turvy nonsense out of us. 
Maybe it has. Sometimes I see on the faces 
of our commuters the unaccustomed agitation 
of thought. At least we still have the grace 
to call ourselves a suburb, and not (what we 
[96] 



Making Marathon Safe for the Urchin 

fancy ourselves) a superurb. But I don't like 
the pretense that runs like a jarring note 
through the music of our life. Why is it that 
those who are doing the work must pretend 
they are not doing it; and those not doing the 
work pretend that they are? I see that the 
motor messenger girls who drive high-powered 
cars wear Sam Browne belts and heavy-soled 
boots, whereas the stalwart colored wenches 
who labor along the tracks of the Cinder and 
Bloodshot console themselves with flimsy waists 
and light slippers. (A fact!) By and by the 
Urchin will notice these things. And I don't 
want him to grow up the kind of chap who, 
instead of running to catch a train, loiters 
gracefully to the station and waits to be 
caught. 



tm 



THE SMELL OF SMELLS 

I SMELT it this morning — I wonder if you 
know the smell I mean? 

It had rained hard during the night, and 
trees and bushes twinkled in the sharp early- 
sunshine like ballroom chandeliers. As soon 
as I stepped out of doors I caught that faint 
but unmistakable musk in the air; that dim, 
warm sweetness. It was the smell of summer, 
so wholly different from the crisp tang of 
spring. 

It is a drowsy, magical waft of warmth and 
fragrance. It comes only when the leaves and 
vegetation have grown to a certain fullness and 
juice, and when the sun bends in his orbit 
near enough to draw out all the subtle vapors 
of field and woodland. It is a smell that rarely 
if ever can be discerned in the city. It needs 
the wider air of the unhampered earth for its 
circulation and play. 

I don't know just why, but I associate that 

peculiar aroma of summer with woodpiles and 

barnyards. Perhaps because in the area of a 

farmyard the sunlight is caught and focused 

[98] 



The Smell of Smells 

and glows with its fullest heat and radiance. 
And it is in the grasp of the relentless sun 
that growing things yield up their innermost 
vitality and emanate their fragrant essence. I 
have seen fields of tobacco under a hot sun that 
smelt as blithe as a room thick with blue Ha- 
vana smoke. I remember a pile of birch logs, 
heaped up behind a barn in Pike County, where 




that mellow richness of summer flowed and 
quivered like a visible exhalation in the air. It 
is the goodly soul of earth, rendering her health 
and sweetness to her master, the sun. 

Every one, I suppose, who is a fancier of 
smells, knows this blithe perfume of the sum- 
mer air that is so pleasant to the nostril almost 
any fine forenoon from mid- June until August. 
It steals pungently through the blue sparkle 
of the morning, fading away toward noon when 
the moistness is dried out. But when one first 

[99] 



Mince Pie 

issues from the house at breakfast time it is at 
its highest savor. Irresistibly it suggests worms, 
and a tin can with the lid jaggedly bent back, 
and a pitchfork turning up the earth behind 
the cow stable. Fishing was first invented when 
Adam smelt that odor in the air. 

The first fishing morning — can't you imagine 
it! Has no one ever celebrated it in verse or 
oils? The world all young and full of unmiti- 
gated sweetness; the Garden of Eden bespan- 
gled with the early dew; Adam scrabbling up 
a fistful of worms and hooking them on a bent 
thorn and a line of twisted pampas grass; 
hurrying down to the branch or the creek or 
the bayou or whatever it may have been; sitting 
down on a brand-new stump that the devil had 
put there to tempt him; throwing out his line; 
sitting there in the sun dreaming and brood- 
ing. . . . 

And then a tug, a twitch, a flurry in the 
clear water of Eden, a pull, a splash, and the 
First Fish lay on the grass at Adam's foot. Can 
you imagine his sensations? How he yelled to 
Eve to come — look — see, and how annoyed he 
was because she called out she was busy. . . . 

Probably it was in that moment that all the 

bickerings and back-talk of husbands and wives 

originated; when Adam called to Eve to come 

and look at his First Fish while it was still sil- 

[100] 



The Smell of Smells 

ver and vivid in its living colors; and Eve an- 
swered she was busy. In that moment were 
born the men's clubs and the women's clubs and 
the pinochle parties and being detained at 
the office and Kelly pool and all the other de- 
vices and stratagems that keep men and women 
from taking their amusements together. 

Well, I didn't mean to go back to the Gar- 
den of Eden; I just wanted to say that sum- 
mer is here again, even though the almanac 
doesn't vouch for it until the 21st. Those of 
you who are fond of smells, spread your nos- 
trils about breakfast time tomorrow morning 
and see if you detect it. 



[101] 



A JAPANESE BACHELOR 

THE first obligation of one who lives by- 
writing is to write what editors will buy. 
In so doing, how often one laments that one 
cannot write exactly what happens. Suppose I 
were to try it — for once ! 

I have been lying on the bed — where the 
landlady has put a dark blue spread, instead 
of the white one, because I drop my tobacco 
ashes — smoking, and thinking about a new 
friend I met today. His name is Kenko, a 
Japanese bachelor of the fourteenth century, 
who wrote a little book of musings which has 
been translated under the title "The Miscellany 
of a Japanese Priest." His candid reflections 
are those of a shrewd, learned, humane and 
somewhat misogynist mind. I have been lying 
on the bed because his book, like all books that 
make one ponder deeply on human destiny, 
causes that feeling of mind-sickness, that swim- 
ming pain of the mental faculties — or is it 
caused by too much strong tobacco? 

My acquaintance with Kenko began only last 
night, when I sat in bed reading Mr. Raymond 
[102] 



A Japanese Bachelor 

Weaver's very pleasant article about him in a 
recent Bookman. My last act before turning 
out the light was to lay the magazine on the 
table, open at Mr. Weaver's essay, to remind 
me to get a copy of Kenko the first thing this 
morning. Happily to-day was Saturday. I 
don't know what I should have done if it had 
been Sunday. I felt that I could not wait an- 
other day without owning that book. I sus- 
pected it was a good deal in the mood of an- 
other bachelor, an Anglo-American Caleb of 
to-day — Mr. Logan Pears all Smith, whose 
whimsical "Trivia" belongs on the same shelf. 

This morning I tried to argue myself out 
of the decision. It may be a very expensive 
book, I thought; it may cost two or three dol- 
lars; I have been spending a lot of money late- 
ly, and I certainly ought to buy some new un- 
dershirts. Moreover, this has been a bad week; 
I have never written those paragraphs I prom- 
ised a certain editor, and I haven't paid the 
rent yet. Why not try to find the book at a 
library? But I knew the only library where 
I would have any chance of finding Kenko 
would be the big pile at Fifth avenue and 
Forty-second street, and I could not bear the 
thought of having to read that book without 
smoking. I felt instinctively (from what Mr. 

[103] 



Mince Pie 

Weaver had written) that it was the kind of 
book that requires a pipe. 

Well, I thought, I won't decide this too 
hastily; I'll walk down to the post office (four 
blocks) and make up my mind on the way. I 
knew already, however, that if I didn't go 
downtown for that book it would bother me all 
■day and ruin my work. 

I walked down to the post office (to mail to 
an editor a sonnet I thought fairly well of) say- 
ing to myself: That book is imported from 
England, it may be a big book, it may even 
cost four dollars. How much better to exhibit 
the stoic tenacity of all great men, go back to 
my hall bedroom (which I was temporarily oc- 
cupying) and concentrate on matters in hand. 
What right, I said, has a Buddhist recluse, born 
either in 1281 or 1283, to harass me so? But 
I knew in my heart that the matter was already 
decided. I walked back to the corner of Hall- 
bedroom street, and stood vacillating at the 
newsstand, pretending to glance over the pa- 
pers. But across six centuries the insistent 
ghost of Kenko had me in its grip. Annoyed, 
and with a sense of chagrin, I hurried to the 
subway. 

In the dimly lit vestibule of the subway car, 
a boy of sixteen or so sat on an up-ended suit- 
case, plunged in a book. I can never resist 
[104] 



A Japanese Bachelor 

the temptation to try to see what books other 
people are reading. This innocent curiosity 
has led me into many rudenesses, for I am 
short-sighted and have to stare very close to 
make out the titles. And usually the people 
who read books on trolleys, subways and fer- 
ries are women. How often I have stalked 
them warily, trying to identify the volume 
without seeming too intrusive. That weakness 
deserves an essay in itself. It has led me into 
surprising adventures. But in this case my 
quarry was easy. The lad — I judged him a 
hoarding school boy going back to school after 
the holidays — was so absorbed in his reading 
that it was easy to thrust my face over his 
shoulder and see the running head on the page — 
"'The Light That Failed." 

I left the subway at Pennsylvania Station. 
Just to appease my conscience, I stopped in at 
the agreeable Cadmus bookshop on Thirty-third 
street to see if by any chance they might have 
a, second-hand copy of Kenko. But I know 
they wouldn't; it is not the kind of book at all 
likely to be found second-hand. I tarried here 
long enough to smoke one cigarette and pay 
my devoirs to the noble profession of second- 
hand bookselling. I even thought, a little wild- 
ly, of buying a copy of "The Monk" by M. G. 
Lewis, which I saw there. So does the frenzy 

[105] 



Mince Pie 

rage when once you unleash it. But I decided 
to be content with paying my devoirs to the 
proprietor, a friend of mine, and not go on (as 
the soldier does in Hood's lovely pun) to de- 
vour my pay. I hurried off to the office of the 
Oxford University Press, Kenko's publishers. 

It should be stated, however, that owing to 
some confusion of doors I got by mistake into 
the reception room of the Brunswick-Balke- 
Collender Billiard Table Company, which is on 
the same corridor as the salesroom of the Ox- 
ford Press. It was a pleasant reception room, 
not very bookish in aspect, but in my agitation 
I was too eager to feel surprised by the large 
billiard table in the offing. I somewhat star- 
tled a young man at an adding machine by de- 
manding, in a husky voice, a copy of "The 
Miscellanies of a Japanese Priest." I was 
rather nervous by this time, lest for some rea- 
son I should not be able to buy a copy of Kenko. 
I feared the publishers might be angry with 
me for not having made a round of the book- 
stores first. The young man saw that I was 
chalking the wrong cue, and forwarded me. 

In the office of the Oxford Press I met a 
very genial reception. I had been, as I say, ap- 
prehensive lest they should refuse to sell me 
the book; or perhaps they might not have a 
copy. I wondered what credentials I could of- 
[106] 



A Japanese Bachelor 

fer to override their scruples. I had made up 
my mind to tell them, if they demurred, that I 
had once published an essay to prove that the 
best book for reading in bed is the General 
Catalogue of the Oxford University Press. 
This is quite true. It is a delightful compila- 
tion of several thousand pages, on India paper. 
But to my pleasant surprise the Oxonians 
seemed not at all surprised at the sudden ap- 
pearance of one asking, in a voice a little shaken 
with emotion, for a copy of the "Miscellanies." 
Mr. Campion and Mr. Krause, who greeted me, 
were kindness itself. 

"Oh, yes," they said, "we have a copy." And 
in a minute it lay before me. One of those little 
green and gold volumes in the Oxford Library 
of Prose and Poetry. "How much?" I said. 
"A dollar forty." I paid it joyfully. It is a 
good price for a book. Once I wrote a book 
myself that sells (when it does sell) at that fig- 
ure. When I was at Oxford I used to buy the 
O. L. P. P. books for (I think) half a crown. 
In 1917 they were listed at a dollar. Now 
$1.40. But I fear Kenko's estate doesn't get 
the advantage of increased royalties. 

The first thing to do was to find a place to 
read the book. My club was fifteen blocks away. 
The smoking room of the Pennsylvania Station, 
where I have done much reading, was three 

[107] 



Mince Pie 

long blocks. But I must dip into Kenko im- 
mediately. Down in the hallway I found a 
shoe-shining stand, with a bowl of indirect light 
above it. The artist was busy in the barber 
shop near-by. Admirable opportunity. I 
mounted the throne and fell to. The first thing 
I saw was a, quaint Japanese woodcut of a 
buxom maiden washing garments in a rapidly 
purling stream. She was treading out a pet- 
ticoat with her bare feet, presumably on a flat 
stone. In a black storm-cloud above a willow 
tree a bearded supernatural being, with hands 
spread in humorous deprecation, gazes down 
half pleased, half horrified. And the caption is, 
"Did not the fairy Kume lose his supernatural 
powers when he saw the white legs of a girl 
washing clothes ?" Yet be not dismayed. Ken- 
ko is no George Moore. 

By and bye the shoeshiner came out and 
found me reading. He was apologetic. "I 
didn't know you were here," he said. "Sorry 
to keep you waiting." Fortunately my shoes 
needed shining, as they generally do. He 
shined them, and I still sat reading. He was 
puzzled, and tried to make out the title of the 
book. At that moment I was reading: 

One morning after a beautiful snowfall I sent a 
letter to a friend's house about something I wished 

[108] 



A Japanese Bachelor 

to say, but said nothing at all about the snow. And 
in his reply he wrote: "How can I listen to a man 
so base that his pen in writing did not make the least 
reference to the snow! Your honorable way of ex- 
pressing yourself I exceedingly regret." How amus- 
ing was this answer! 

The shoeshiner was now asking me whether 
anything was wrong with the polish he had put 
on my boots, so I thought it best to leave. 

In the earlier pages of Kenko's book there 
are a number of allusions to the agreeableness 
of intercourse with friends, so I went into a 
nearby restaurant to telephone to a man whom 
I wished to know better. He said that he would 
be happy to meet me at ten minutes after 
twelve. That left over half an hour. I felt an 
immediate necessity to tell some one about 
Kenko, so I made my way to Mr. Nichols's 
delightful bookshop (which has an open fire) on 
Thirty-third Street. I showed the book to Mr. 
Nichols, and we had a pleasant talk, in the 
course of which she showed me the five fac- 
simile volumes of Dickens's Christmas books, 
which he had issued. In particular, he read 
aloud to me the magnificent description of the 
boiling kettle in the first "Chirp" of "The 
Cricket on the Hearth," and pointed out to me 
how Dickens fell into rhyme in describing the 

[109] 



Mince Pie 

song of the kettle. This passage Mr. Nichols 
read to me, standing in front of his fire, in a 
very musical and sympathetic tone of voice, 
which pleased me exceedingly. I was strongly 
tempted to buy the five little books, and wished 
I had known of them before Christmas. With a 
brutal effort at last I pulled out my watch, and 
found it was a quarter after twelve. 

I met my friend at his office, and we walked 
up Fourth Avenue in a flush of sunshine. From 
Twenty-fourth to Forty-second Street we dis- 
cussed the habits of English poets visiting this 
country. At the club we got onto Bolshevism, 
and he told me how a bookseller on Lexington 
Avenue, whose shop is frequented by very out- 
spoken radicals, had told him that one of these 
had said, 1 "The time is coming, and not far 
away, when the gutters in front of your shop 
will run with blood as they did in Petrograd." 
I thought of some recent bomb outrages in 
Philadelphia and did not laugh. With such cur- 
rent problems before us, I felt a little em- 
barrassed about turning the talk back to so 
many centuries to Kenko, but finally I got it 
there. My friend ate chicken hash and tea; I 
had kidneys and bacon, and cocoa with whipped 
cream. We both had a coffee eclair. We parted 
with mutual regret, and I went back to the Hall- 
bedroom street, intending to do some work. 
[110] 



A Japanese Bachelor 

Of course you know that I didn't do it. I lit 
the gas stove, and sat down to read Kenko. 
I wished I were a recluse, living somewhere 
near a plum tree and a clear running water, 
leisurely penning maxims for posterity. I read 
about his frugality, his love of the moon and 
a little music, his somewhat embittered com- 
plaints against the folly of men who spend 
their lives in rushing about swamped in petty 
affairs, and the sad story of the old priest 
who was attacked by a goblin-cat when he 
came home late at night from a pleasant even- 
ing spent in capping verses. I read with spe- 
cial pleasure his seven Self-Congratulations, in 
which he records seven occasions when he felt 
that he had really done himself justice. The 
first of these was when he watched a man 
riding horseback in a reckless fashion; he pre- 
dicted that the man would come a cropper, and 
he did so. The next four self-congratulations 
refer to times when his knowledge of literary 
and artistic matters enabled him to place an un- 
familiar quotation or assign a painted tablet to 
the right artist. One tells how he was able to 
find a man in a crowd when everyone else had 
failed. And the last and most amusing is an 
anecdote of a court lady who tried to inveigle 
him into a flirtation with her maid by sending 
the latter, richly dressed and perfumed, to sit 

[111] 



Mince Pie 

very close to him when he was at the temple. 
Kenko congratulates himself on having been 
adamant. He was no Pepys. 

I thought of trying to set down a similar list 
of self-congratulations for myself. Alas, the 
only two I could think of were having remem- 
bered a telephone number, the memorandum of 
which I had lost; and having persuaded a pub- 
lisher to xssue a novel which was a great suc- 
cess. (Not written by me, let me add.) 

I found my friend Kenko a rather disturbing 
companion. His condemnation of our busy, 
racketing life is so damned conclusive ! Having 
recently added to my family, I was distressed 
by his section "Against Leaving Any Descend- 
ants." He seems to be devoid of the sentiment, 
of ancestor worship and sacredness of family 
continuity which we have been taught to asso- 
ciate with the Oriental. And yet there is al- 
ways a current of suspicion in one's mind that 
he is not really revealing his inmost heart. 
When a bachelor in his late fifties tells us how 
glad he is never to have had a son, we begin 
to taste sour grapes. 

I went out about six o'clock, and was thrilled 

by a shaving of shining new moon in the cold 

blue winter sky — "the sky with its terribly cold 

clear moon, which none care to watch, is sim- 

[112] 



A Japanese Bachelor 

ply heart-breaking/' says Kenko. As I walked 
up Broadway I turned back for another look 
at the moon, and found it hidden by the vast 
bulk of a hotel. Kenko would have had some 
caustic remark for that. I went into the Mil- 
waukee Lunch for supper. They had j ust baked 
some of their delicious fresh bran muffins, still 
hot from the oven. I had two of them, sliced 
and buttered, with a pot of tea. Kenko lay 
on the table, and the red-headed philosopher 
who runs the lunchroom spotted him. I have 
always noticed that "plain men" are vastly 
curious about books. They seem to suspect that 
there is some occult power in them, some mys- 
tery that they would like to grasp. My friend, 
who has the bearing of a prizefighter, but the 
heart of an amiable child, came over and picked 
up the book. He sat down at the table with me 
and looked at it. I was a little doubtful how 
to explain matters, for I felt that it was the 
kind of book he would not be likely to care 
for. He began spelling it out loud, rather 
laboriously — 

Section 1. Well! Being born into this world 
there are, I suppose, many aims which we may strive 
to attain. ^ 

To my surprise he showed the greatest en- 
thusiasm. So much so that I ordered another 

[113] 



Mince Pie 

pair of bran muffins, which I did not really 
want, so that he might have more time for read- 
ing Kenko. 

"Who was this fellow?" he asked. 

"He was a Jap/' I said, "lived a long time 
ago. He was mighty thick with the Emperor, 
and after the Emperor died he went to live by 
himself in the country, and became a priest, and 
wrote down his thoughts." 

"I see," said my friend. "Just put down 
whatever came into his head, eh?" 

"That's it. All his ideas about the queer 
things a fellow runs into in life, you know, little 
bits of philosophy." 

I was a little afraid of using that word 
"philosophy," but I couldn't think of anything 
else to say. It struck my friend very pleas- 
antly. 

"That's it," he said, "philosophy. Just as 
you say, now, he went off by himself and put 
things down the way they come to him. Phi- 
losophy. Sure. Say, that's a good kind of book. 
I like that kind of thing. I have a lot of books 
at home, you know. I get home about nine 
o'clock, and I most always read a bit before I 
go to bed." 

How I yearned to know what books they were, 
but it seemed rude to question him. 

He dipped into Kenko again, and I wondered 
[114] 



A Japanese Bachelor 

whether courtesy demanded that I should order 
another pot of tea. 

"Say, would you like to do me a favor?" 

"Sure thing," I said. 

"When you get through with that book, pass 
it over, will you? That's the kind of thing 
I've been wanting. Just some little thoughts, 
you know, something short. I've got a lot of 
books at home." 

His big florid face gleamed with friendly 
earnestness. 

"Sure thing," I said. "Just as soon as I've 
finished it you shall have it." I wanted to ask 
whether he would reciprocate by lending me one 
of his own books, which would give me some 
clue to his tastes; but again I felt obscurely 
that he would not understand my curiosity. 

As I went out he called to me again from 
where he stood by the shining coffee boiler. 
"Don't forget, will you?" he said. "When 
you're through, just pass it over." 

I promised faithfully, and tomorrow evening 
I shall take the book in to him. I honestly hope 
he'll enjoy it. I walked up the bright wintry 
street, and wondered what Kenko would have 
said to the endless flow of taxicabs, the ele- 
vators and subways, the telephones, and tele- 
graph offices, the newsstands and especially the 
plate-glass windows of florists. He would have 

[115] 



Mince Pie 

Iiad some urbane, cynical and delightfully dis- 
illusioning remarks to offer. And, as Mr. 
Weaver so shrewdly says, how he would enjoy 
"The Way of All Flesh!" 

I came back to Hallbedroom street, and set 
down these few meditations. There is much 
more I would like to say, but the partitions in 
hall bedrooms are thin, and the lady in the next 
room thumps on the wall if I keep the type- 
writer going after ten o'clock. 



[116] 



TWO DAYS WE CELEBRATE 




IF we were asked (we have not been asked) 
to name a day the world ought to celebrate 
and does not, we would name the 16th of May. 
For on that day, in the year 1763, James Bos- 
well first met Dr. Samuel Johnson. 

This great event, which enriched the world 
with one of the most vivid panoramas of hu- 
man nature known to man, happened in Tom 
Davies's bookshop in Covent Garden. Mr. and 
Mrs. Davies were friends of the Doctor, who 
frequently visited their shop. Of them Bos- 
well remarks quaintly that though they had 
been on the stage for many years, they "main- 

[117] 



Mince Pie 

tained an uniform decency of character." The 
shop seems to have been a charming place: one 
went there not merely to buy books, but also to 
have a cup of tea in the back parlor. It is sad 
to think that though we have been hanging 
round bookshops for a number of years, we have 
never yet met a bookseller who invited us into 
the private office for a quiet cup. Wait a mo- 
ment, though, we are forgetting Dr. Rosenbach, 
the famous bookseller of Philadelphia. But his 
collations, held in amazed memory by many 
editioneers, rarely descend to anything so hum- 
ble as tea. One recalls a confused glamor of 
ortolans, trussed guinea-hens, strawberries re- 
clining in a bowl carved out of solid ice, and 
what used to be known as vintages. It is a pity 
that Dr. Johnson died too soon to take lunch 
with Dr. Rosenbach. 

"At last, on Monday, the 16th of May," says 
Boswell, "when I was sitting in Mr. Davies's 
back parlor, after having drunk tea with him 
and Mrs. Davies, Johnson unexpectedly came 
into the shop; and Mr. Davies, having perceiv- 
ed him through the glass door, announced his 
awful approach to me. Mr. Davies mentioned 
my name, and respectfully introduced me to 
him. I was much agitated." The volatile Bos- 
well may be forgiven his agitation. We also 
would have trembled not a little. Boswell was 
[118] 



Two Days We Celebrate 

only twenty-two, and probably felt that his 
whole life and career hung upon the great 
man's mood. But embarrassment is a comely 
emotion for a young man in the face of great- 
ness ; and the Doctor was speedily put in a good 
humor by an opportunity to utter his favorite 
pleasantry at the expense of the Scotch. "I 
do, indeed, come from Scotland," cried Boswell, 
after Davies had let the cat out of the bag; 
"but I cannot help it." "That, sir," said Doc- 
tor Johnson, "is what a great many of your 
countrymen cannot help." 

The great book that dated from that meeting 
in Davies's back parlor has become one of the 
most intimately cherished possessions of the 
race. One finds its admirers and students scat- 
tered over the globe. No man who loves human 
nature in all its quirks and pangs, seasoned with 
bluff honesty and the genuineness of a cliff or a 
tree, can afford to step into a hearse until he 
has made it his own. And it is a noteworthy 
illustration of the biblical saying that whosoever 
will rule, let him be a servant. Boswell made 
himself the servant of Johnson, and became one 
of the masters of English literature. 

It used to annoy us to hear Karl Rosner re- 
ferred to as "the Kaiser's Boswell." For to 
boswellize (which is a verb that has gone into 

[119] 



Mince Pie 

our dictionaries) means not merely to transcribe 
faithfully the acts and moods and import of a 
man's life; it implies also that the man so de- 
lineated be a good man and a great. Horace 
Traubel was perhaps a Boswell; but Rosner, 
never. 

It is pleasant to know that Boswell was not 
merely a kind of animated note-book. He was 
a droll, vain, erring, bibulous, warm-hearted 
creature, a good deal of a Pepys, in fact, with 
all the Pepysian vices and virtues. Mr. A. Ed- 
ward Newton's "Amenities of Book Collecting" 
makes Boswell very human to us. How jolly it 
is to learn that Jamie (like many lesser fry 
since) wrote press notices about himself. Here 
is one of his own blurbs, which we quote from 
Mr. Newton's book: 

Boswell, the author, is a most excellent man: he is 
of an ancient family in the west of Scotland, upon 
which he values himself not a little. At his nativity 
there appeared omens of his future greatness. His 
parts are bright, and his education has been good. 
He has traveled in post chaises miles without num- 
ber. He is fond of seeing much of the world. He 
eats of every good dish, especially apple pie. He 
drinks Old Hock. He has a very fine temper. He 
is somewhat of a humorist and a little tinctured with 
pride. He has a good manly countenance, and he 
owns himself to be amorous. He has infinite viva- 
city, yet is observed at times to have a melancholy 

[120] 



Two Days We Celebrate 

cast. He is rather fat than lean, rather short than 
tall, rather young than old. His shoes are neatly 
made, and he never wears spectacles. 

This brings the excellent Boswell very close 
to us indeed: he might almost be a member of 
the Authors' League. "Especially apple pie, 
bless his heart!" 

When we said that Boswell was a kind of 
Pepys, we fell by chance into a happy compari- 
son. Not only by his volatile errors was he of 
the tribe of Samuel, but in his outstanding 
character by which he becomes of importance to 
posterity — that of one of the great diarists. 
Now there is no human failing upon which we 
look with more affectionate lenience than that 
of keeping a diary. All of us, in our pilgrim- 
age through the difficult thickets of this world, 
have moods and moments when we have to fall 
back on ourselves for the only complete un- 
derstanding and absolution we will ever find. 
In such times, how pleasant it is to record our 
emotions and misgivings in the sure and secret 
pages of some privy notebook; and how enter- 
taining to read them again in later years ! Dr. 
Johnson himself advised Bozzy to keep a jour- 
nal, though he little suspected to what use it 
would be put. The cynical will say that he did 
so in order that Bozzy would have less time to 

[121] 



Mince Pie 

pester him, but we believe his advice was sin- 
cere. It must have been, for the Doctor kept 
one himself, of which more in a moment. 

"He recommended to me/' Boswell says, "to 
keep a journal of my life, full and unreserved. 
He said it would be a very good exercise and 
would yield me great satisfaction when the par- 
ticulars were faded from my remembrance. He 
counselled me to keep it private, and said I 
might surely have a friend who would burn it in 
case of my death." 

Happily it was not burned. The Great Doc- 
tor never seemed so near to me as the other 
day when I saw a little notebook, bound in soft 
brown leather and interleaved with blotting pa- 
per, in which Bozzy's busy pen had jotted down 
memoranda of his talks with his friend, while 
they were still echoing in his mind. From this 
notebook (which must have been one of many) 
the paragraphs were transferred practically un- 
altered into the Life. This superb treasure, 
now owned by Mr. Adam of Buffalo, almost 
makes one hear the Doctor's voice; and one 
imagines Boswell sitting up at night with his 
candle, methodically recording the remarks of 
the day. The first entry was dated September 
22, 1777, so Bozzy must have carried it in his 
pocket when Dr. Johnson and he were visiting 
Dr. Taylor in Ashbourne. It was during this 
[122] 



Two Days We Celebrate 

junket that Dr. Johnson tried to pole the large 
dead cat over Dr. Taylor's dam, an incident 
that Boswell recorded as part of his "Flemish 
picture of my friend." It was then also that 
Mrs. Killingley, mistress of Ashbourne's lead- 
ing inn, The Green Man, begged Boswell "to 
name the house to his extensive acquaintance." 
Certainly Bozzy's acquaintance was to be far 
more extensive than good Mrs. Killingley ever 
dreamed. It was he who "named the house" 
to me, and for this reason The Green Man 
profited in fourpence worth of cider, 134 years 
later. 

There is another day we have vowed to com- 
memorate, by drinking great flaggonage of tea, 
and that is the 18th of September, Dr. John- 
son's birthday. The Great Cham needs no 
champion; his speech and person have become 
part of our common heritage. Yet the extraor- 
dinary scenario in which Boswell filmed him for 
us has attained that curious estate of great lit- 
erature the characteristic of which is that every 
man imagines he has read it, though he may 
never have opened its pages. It is like the his- 
toric landmark of one's home town, which for- 
eigners from overseas come to study, but which 
the denizen has hardly entered. It is like Niag- 
ara Falls : we have a very fair mental picture of 
the spectacle and little zeal to visit the 

[123] 



Mince Pie 

uproar itself. And so, though we all use Doctor 
Johnson's sharply stamped coinages, we gener- 
ally are too lax about visiting the mint. 

But we will never cease to pray that every 
honest man should study Boswell. There are 
many who have topped the rise of human felic- 
ity in that book: when reading it they feel the 
tide of intellect brim the mind with a unique 
fullness of satisfaction. It is not a mere com- 
mentary on life: it is life — it fills and floods 
every channel of the brain. It is a book that 
men make a hobby of, as golf or billiards. To 
know it is a liberal education. I could have 
understood Germany yearning to invade Eng- 
land in order to annex Boswell's Johnson. 
There would have been some sense in that. 

What is the average man's conception of 
Doctor Johnson? We think of a huge ungainly 
creature, slovenly of dress, addicted to tea, the 
author of a dictionary and the center of a tav- 
ern coterie. We think of him prefacing bluff 
and vehement remarks with "Sir," and having 
a knack for demolishing opponents in boister- 
ous argument. All of which is passing true, 
just as is our picture of the Niagara we have 
never seen; but how it misses the inner tender- 
ness and tormented virtue of the man ! 

So it is refreshing sometimes to turn away 
from Boswell to those passages where the good 
[124] 



Two Days We Celebrate 

old Doctor has revealed himself with his own 
hand. The letter to Chesterfield is too well 
known for comment. But no less noble, and 
not nearly so well known, is the preface to the 
Dictionary. How moving it is in its sturdy 
courage, its strong grasp of the tools of ex- 
pression. In every line one feels the weight 
and push of a mind that had behind it the full 
reservoir of language, particularly the Latin. 
There is the same sense of urgent pressure that 
one feels in watching a strong stream backed 
up behind a dam: 

I look with pleasure on my book, however defec- 
tive, and deliver it to the world with the spirit of a 
man that has endeavored well. That it will immedi- 
ately become popular I have not promised to myself: 
a few wild blunders, and risible absurdities, from 
which no work of such multiplicity was ever free, 
may for a time furnish folly with laughter, and 
harden ignorance in contempt, but useful diligence 
will at last prevail, and there never can be want- 
ing some who distinguish desert; who will consider 
that no dictionary of a living tongue ever can be 
perfect, since while it is hastening to publication, 
some words are budding, and some falling away; 
that a whole life cannot be spent upon syntax and 
etymology, and that even a whole life would not be 
sufficient; that he, whose design includes whatever 
language can express, must often speak of what he 
does not understand; that a writer will sometimes be 
hurried by eagerness to the end, and sometimes faint 

[125] 



Mince Pie 

with weariness under a task, which Scaliger compares 
to the labors of the anvil and the mine; that what 
is obvious is not always known, and what is known 
is not always present; that sudden fits of inadver- 
tency will surprise vigilance, slight avocations will 
seduce attention, and casual eclipses of the mind 
will darken learning; and that the writer shall often 
in vain trace his memory at the moment of need, 
for that which yesterday he knew with intuitive 
readiness, and which will come uncalled into his 
thoughts to-morrow. 

I know no better way of celebrating Doctor 
Johnson's birthday than by quoting a few pas- 
sages from his "Prayers and Meditations/' 
jotted down during his life in small note-books 
and given shortly before his death to a friend. 
No one understands the dear old doctor unless 
he remembers that his spirit was greatly per- 
plexed and harassed by sad and disordered 
broodings. The bodily twitchings and odd ges- 
tures which attracted so much attention as he 
rolled about the streets were symptoms of pain- 
ful twitchings and gestures within. A great 
part of his intense delight in convivial gather- 
ings^ in conversation and the dinner table, was 
due to his eagerness to be taken out of himself. 
One fears that his solitary hours were very of- 
ten tragic. 

There were certain dates which Doctor John- 
son almost always commemorated in his private 
[126] 



Two Days We Celebrate 

notebook — his birthday, the date of his wife's 
death, the Easter season and New Year's. In 
these pathetic little entries one sees the spirit 
that was dogmatic and proud among men abas- 
ing itself in humility and pouring out the gen- 
erous tenderness of an affectionate nature. In 
these moments of contrition small peccadilloes 
took on tragic importance in his mind. Rising 
late in the morning and the untidy state of his 
papers seemed unforgivable sins. There is 
hardly any more moving picture in the history 
of mankind than that of the rugged old doctor 
pouring out his innocent petitions for greater 
strength in ordering his life and bewailing his 
faults of sluggishness, indulgence at table and 
disorderly thoughts. Let us begin with his en- 
try on September 18, 1760, his fifty-second 
birthday : 

RESOLVED, D. j. 

To combat notions of obligation. 

To apply to study. 

To reclaim imaginations. 

To consult the resolves on Tetty's [his 
wife's] coffin. 

To rise early. 

To study religion. 

To go to church. 

To drink less strong liquors. 

To keep a journal. 

[127] 



Mince Pie 

To oppose laziness by doing what is to be 
done to-morrow. 

Rise as early as I can. 

Send for books for history of war. 

Put books in order. 

Scheme of life. 

The very human feature of these little notes 
is that the same good resolutions appear year 
after year. Thus, four years after the above, 
we find him writing: 

Sept. 18, 1764. 

This is my 56th birthday, the day on which I 
have concluded 55 years. 

I have outlived many friends. I have felt 
many sorrows. I have made few improvements. 
Since my resolution formed last Easter, I have 
made no advancement in knowledge or in good- 
ness; nor do I recollect that I have endeavored 
it. I am dej ected, but not hopeless. 

I resolve, 

To study the Scriptures ; I hope, in the orig- 
inal languages. Six hundred and forty verses 
every Sunday will nearly comprise the Scrip- 
tures in a year. 

To read good books ; to study theology. 

To treasure in my mind passages for recol- 
lection. 

[128] 



Two Days We Celebrate 

To rise early; not later than six, if I can; I 
hope sooner, but as soon as I can. 

To keep a journal, both of employment and 
of expenses. To keep accounts. 

To take care of my health by such means as 
I have designed. 

To set down at night some plan for the mor- 
row. 

To-morrow I purpose to regulate my room. 

At Easter, 1765, he confesses sadly that he 
often lies abed until two in the afternoon; 
which, after all, was not so deplorable, for he 
usually went to bed very late. Boswell has 
spoken of "the unseasonable hour at which he 
had habituated himself to expect the oblivion 
of repose." On New Year's Day, 1767, he 
prays: "Enable me, O Lord, to use all enjoy- 
ments with due temperance, preserve me from 
unseasonable and immoderate sleep." Two 
years later than this he writes : 

"I am not yet in a state to form many resolu- 
tions; I purpose and hope to rise early in the 
morning at eight, and by degrees at six; eight 
being the latest hour to which bedtime can b§ 
properly extended; and six the earliest that 
the present system of life requires." 

One of the most pathetic of his entries is the 
following, on September 18, 1768: 

[129] 



Mince Pie 

"This day it came into my mind to write the 
history of my melancholy. On this I purpose 
to deliberate; I know not whether it may not 
too much disturb me." 

From time to time there have been stupid or 
malicious people who have said that Johnson's 
marriage with a homely woman twenty years 
older than himself was not a love match. For 
instance, Mr. E. W. Howe, of Atchison, Kan., 
in most respects an amiable and well-conducted 
philosopher, uttered in Howe's Monthly (May, 
191 8) the following words, which (I hope) he 
will forever regret: 

"I have heard that when a young man he 
(Johnson) married an ugly and vulgar old 
woman for her money, and that his taste was 
so bad that he worshiped her." 

Against this let us set what Johnson wrote in 
his notebook on March 28, 1770: 

This is the day on which, in 1752, I was de- 
prived of poor dear Tetty. When I recollect 
the time in which we lived together, my grief 
of her departure is not abated; and I have less 
pleasure in any good that befalls me, because 
she does not partake it. On many occasions, I 
think what she would have said or done. When 
I saw the sea at Brighthelmstone, I wished for 
her to have seen it with me. But with respect 
[130] 



Two Days We Celebrate 

to her, no rational wish is now left but that 
we may meet at last where the mercy of God 
shall make us happy, and perhaps make us in- 
strumental to the happiness of each other. It 
is now 18 years. 

Let us end the memorandum with a less sol- 
emn note. On Good Friday, 1779, he and Bos- 
well went to church together. When they re- 
turned the good old doctor sat down to read the 
Bible, and he says, "I gave Boswell Les Pensees 
de Pascal, that he might not interrupt me." Of 
this very copy Boswell says: "I preserve the 
book with reverence." I wonder who has it 
now? 

So let us wish Doctor Johnson many happy 
returns of the day, sure that as long as paper 
and ink and eyesight preserve their virtue he 
will bide among us, real and living and endless- 
ly loved. 



'[181J 



THE URCHIN AT THE ZOO 

I DON'T know just what urchins think about ; 
neither do they, perhaps; but presumably 
by the time they're twenty-eight months old 
they must have formed some ideas as to what 
is possible and what isn't. And therefore it 
seemed to the Urchin's curators sound and ad- 
visable to take him out to the Zoo one Sunday 
afternoon just to suggest to his delightful mind 
that nothing is impossible in this curious world. 

Of course, the amusing feature of such ex- 
peditions is that it is always the adult who is 
astounded, while the child takes things blandly 
for granted. You or I can watch a tiger for 
hours and not make head or tail of it — in a 
spiritual sense, that is — whereas an urchin sim- 
ply smiles with rapture, isn't the least amazed, 
and wants to stroke the "nice pussy." 

It was a soft spring afternoon, the garden 
was thronged with visitors and all the indoor 
animals seemed to be wondering how soon they 
would be let out into their open-air inclosures. 
We filed through the wicket gate and the Urchin 
[132] 



The Urchin at the Zoo 

disdained the little green go-carts ranked for 
hire. He preferred to navigate the Zoo on his 
own white- gaitered legs. You might as well 
have expected Adam on his first tour of Eden to 
ride in a palanquin. 

The Urchin entered the Zoo much in the 
frame of mind that must have been Adam's on 
that original tour of inspection. He had been 
told he was going to the Zoo, but that meant 
nothing to him. He saw by the aspect of his 
curators that he was to have a good time, and 
loyally he was prepared to exult over what- 
ever might come his way. The first thing he 
saw was a large boulder — it is set up as a me- 
morial to a former curator of the garden. 
"Ah," thought the Urchin, "this is what I have 
been brought here to admire." With a shout of 
glee he ran to it. "See stone," he cried. He 
is an enthusiast concerning stones. He has a 
small cardboard box of pebbles, gathered from 
the walks of a city square, which is very pre- 
cious to him. And this magnificent big pebble, 
he evidently thought, was the marvelous thing 
he had come to examine. His custodians, far 
more anxious than he to feast their eyes upon 
lions and tigers, had hard work to lure him 
away. He crouched by the boulder, appraising 
its hugeness, and left it with the gratified air 

[133] 



Mince Pie 

of one who has extracted the heart out of a sur- 
prising and significant experience. 

The next adventure was a robin, hopping on 
the lawn. Every child is familiar with robins, 
which play a leading part in so much Mother 
Goose mythology, so the Urchin felt himself 
greeting an old friend. "See Robin Red- 
breast!" he exclaimed, and tried to climb the 
low wire fence that bordered the path. The 
robin hopped discreetly underneath a bush, un- 
certain of our motives. 

Now, as I have no motive but to attempt 
to record the truth, it is my duty to set down 
quite frankly that I believe the Urchin showed 
more enthusiasm over the stone and the robin 
than over any of the amazements that suc- 
ceeded them. I suppose the reason for that 
is plain. These two objects had some under- 
standable relation with his daily life. His 
small mind — we call a child's mind "small" sim- 
ply by habit; perhaps it is larger than ours, for 
it can take in almost anything without effort — 
possessed well-known classifications into which 
the big stone and the robin fitted comfortably 
and naturally. 'But what can a child say to an 
ostrich or an elephant? It simply smiles and 
passes on. Thereby showing its superiority to 
some of our most eminent thinkers. They, con- 
fronted by something the like of which they 
[134] 



The Urchin at the Zoo 

have never seen before — shall we say a League 
of Nations or Bolshevism? — burst into shrill 
screams of panic abuse and flee the precinct! 
How much wiser the level-headed Urchin ! Con- 
fronting the elephant, certainly an appalling 
sight to so small a mortal, he looked at the cura- 
tor, who was carrying him on one shoulder, 
and said with an air of one seeking gently to 
reassure himself, "Elphunt won't come after 
Junior." Which is something of the mood to 
which the Senate is moving. 

It was delightful to see the Urchin endeavor 
to bring some sense of order into this amaz- 
ing place by his classification of the strange 
sights that surrounded him. He would not 
confess himself staggered by anything. At his 
first glimpse of the emu he cried ecstatic, 
"Look, there's a ," and paused, not know- 
ing what on earth to call it. Then rapidly to 
cover up his ignorance he pointed confidently 
to a somewhat similar fowl and said sagely, 
"And there's another !" The curious moth-eaten 
and shabby appearance that captive camels al- 
ways exhibit was accurately recorded in his 
addressing one of them as "poor old horsie." 
And after watching the llamas in silence, when 
he saw them nibble at some grass he was satis- 
fied. "Moo-cow," he stated positively, and turn- 
ed away. The bears did not seem to interest 

[135] 



Mince Pie 

him until he was reminded of Goldylocks. Then 
he remembered the pictures of the bears in 
that story and began to take stock of them. 

The Zoo is a pleasant place to wander on a 
Sunday afternoon. The willow trees, down by 
the brook where the otters were plunging, were 
a cloud of delicate green. Shrubs everywhere 
were bursting into bud. The Tasmanian devils, 
those odd little swine that look like small pigs 
in a high fever, were lying sprawled out, belly 
to the sun-warmed earth, in the same whimsical 
posture that dogs adopt when trying to express 
how jolly they feel. The Urchin's curators 
were at a loss to know what the Tasmanian 
devils were and at first were led astray by a 
sign on a tree in the devils' inclosure. "Look, 
they're Norway maples," cried one curator. In 
the same way we thought at first that a llama 
was a Chinese kinkgo. These errors lead to a 
decent humility. 

There is something about a Zoo that always 
makes one hungry, so we sat on a bench in the 
sun, watched the stately swans ruffling like 
square-rigged ships on the sparkling pond, and 
ate biscuits, while the Urchin was given a man- 
date over some very small morsels. He was 
much entertained by the monkeys in the open- 
air cages. In the upper story of one cage a 
lady baboon was embracing an urchin of her 
[136] 



The Urchin at the Zoo 

own, while underneath her husband was turn- 
ing over a pile of straw in a persistent search 
for small deer. It was a sad day for the mon- 
keys at the Zoo when the rule was made that 
no peanuts can be brought into the park. I 
should have thought that peanuts were an in- 
alienable right for captive monkeys. The order 
posted everywhere that one must not give the 
animals tobacco seems almost unnecessary now- 
adays, with the weed at present prices. The 
Urchin was greatly interested in the baboon 
rummaging in his straw. "Mokey kicking the 
grass away," he observed thoughtfully. 

Down in the grizzly-bear pit one of the 
bears squatted himself in the pool and sat 
there, grinning complacently at the crowd. We 
explained that the bear was taking a bath. This 
presented a familar train of thought to the 
Urchin and he watched the grizzly climb out 
of his tank and scatter the water over the stone 
floor. As we walked away the Urchin observed 
thoughtfully, "He's dying." This somewhat 
shocked the curators, who did not know that 
their offspring had even heard of death. "What 
does he mean?" we asked ourselves. "He's 
dying," repeated the Urchin in a tone of happy 
conviction. Then the explanation struck us. 
"He's drying !" "Quite right," we said. "After 
his bath he has to dry himself." 

[137] 



Mince Pie 

We went home on a crowded Girard Avenue 
car, thinking impatiently that it will be some 
time before we can read "The Jungle Book" 
to the Urchin. In the summer, when the ele- 
phants take their bath outdoors, we'll go again. 
And the last thing the Urchin said that night as 
he fell asleep was, "Mokey kicking the grass 
away." 



[138] 



FELLOW CRAFTSMEN 

ROBERT URWICK, the author, was not yet 
so calloused by success that he was im- 
mune from flattery. And so when he received 
the following letter he was rather pleased: 

Mr. Robt. Urwick, dear sir I seen your story 
in this weeks Saturday Evn Cudgel, not that 
I can afford to *»uy journals of that stamp but 
I pick up the copy on a bench in the park. 
Now Mr. Urwick I am a poor man but I was 
brought up a patron of the arts and I am bound 
to say that story of yours called Brass Nuckles 
was a fine story and I am proud to compliment 
you upon it. Mr. Urwick that brings me to 
another matter upon which I have been intend- 
ing to write you upon for a long time but did 
not like to risk an intrusion. I used to dable 
in literature to some little extent myself if that 
will lend a fellow feeling for a craftsman in 
distress. I am a poor man, out of work through 
no fault of mine but on account of the illness 
of my wife and my sitting up with her at nights 
for weeks and weeks I could not hold my job 

[139] 



Mince Pie 

whch required mentle concentration of a vigor- 
ous sort. Now Mr. Urwick I have a sick wife 
and seven children to support, and the rent 
shortly due and the landlord threatens to eject 
us if I don't pay what I owe. As it happens 
my wife and I are hoping to be blessed again 
soon, with our eighth. Owing to my love and 
devotion for the fine arts we have named all 
the earlier children for noted authors or writers 
Rudyard Kipling, W. J. Bryan, Mark Twain, 
Debs, Irvin Cobb, Walt Mason and Ella 
Wheeler Wilcox. Now Mr. Urwick I thought 
that I would name the next one after you, see- 
ing you have done so much for literature Robert 
if a boy or Roberta if a girl with Urwick for 
a middle name thus making you a godfather in 
a manner of speaking. I was wondering 
whether you would not feel like making a little 
godfathers gift for this innocent babe now about 
to come into the world and to bare your name. 
Say twenty dollars, but not a check if it can 
be avoided as owing to tempry ambarrassment 
I am not holding any bank account, and cur- 
rency would be easier for me to convert into 
the necesity of life. 

I wrote this letter once before but tore it 
up fearing to intrude, but now my need compels 
me to be frank. I hope you will adorn our lit— 
[140] 



Fellow Craftsmen 

erature with many more beautiful compositions 
similiar to Brass Nuckles. 

Yours truly 

Mr Henry Phillips 

454. East 34 St. 

Mr. Urwick, after reading this remarkable 
tribute twice, laughed heartily and looked in 
his bill-folder. Finding there a crisp ten-dollar 
note, he folded it into an envelope and mailed 
it to his admirer, inclosing with it a friendly 
letter wishing success to the coming infant who 
was to carry his name. 

A fortnight later he found on his breakfast 
table a very soiled postal card with this mes- 
sage : 

Dear and kind friend, the babe arrived and 
to the joy of all is a boy and has been cristened 
Robert Urwick Phillips. Unfortunately he is a 
sicly infant and the doctor says he must have 
port wine at once or he may not survive. His 
mother and I were overjoyed at your munificant 
gift and hope some day to tell the boy of his 
beanefactor, Mr. Kipling only sent five spot 
to his namesake. Do you think you could spare 
five dollars to help pay for port wine 
Yours gratefully 

Henry Phillips? 

Mr. Urwick was a little surprised at the 
thought of port wine for one so young, but 

[141] 



Mince Pie 

happening to be bound down town that morn- 
ing he thought it might be interesting to look 
in at Mr. Phillips' residence and find out how 
his godchild was faring. If the child were 
really in distress he might perhaps contribute 
a small sum to insure proper medical care. 

The address proved to be a shabby tenement 
house hedged by saloons. A ragged little girl 
(he wondered whether she were Ella Wheeler 
Wilcox Phillips) pointed him to Mr. Phillips's 
door. Meeting no answer, he entered. 

The room was empty — a single room, with 
a cot bed, an oil stove and a table littered with 
stationery and stamps. Of Mrs. Phillips, his 
namesake or the other seven he saw no signs. 
He advanced to the table. 

Evidently Mr. Phillips was not a ready writer 
and his letters cost him some pains. Several 
lay open on the table in different stages of 
composition. They were all exactly the same 
in wording as the first one Urwick had re- 
ceived. They were addressed to Booth Tark- 
ington, Don Marquis, Ellen Glasgow, Edna 
Ferber, Agnes Repplier, Holworthy Hall and 
Fannie Hurst. Each letter offered to name 
jsome coming child after these Parnassians. 
Near by lay a pile of old magazines from which 
the industrious Mr. Phillips evidently culled 
the names of his literary favorites. 
[142] 



Fellow Craftsmen 

Urwick smiled grimly and tiptoed from the 
room. On the stairs he met a fat charwoman. 
He asked her if Mr. Phillips were married. 
"Whisky is his wife and child," she replied. 

A month later Urwick put Phillips into a 
story which he sold to the Saturday Evening 
Cudgel for $500. When it was published he 
sent a marked copy of the magazine to the 
father of Robert Urwick Phillips with the fol- 
lowing note: 

"Dear Mr. Phillips — I owe you about $490. 
Come around some day and I'll blow you to 
lunch." 



[143] 



THE KEY RING 




I KNOW a man who carries in his left-leg 
trouser pocket a large heavy key ring, on 
which there are a dozen or more keys of all 
shapes and sizes. There is a latchkey, and 
the key of his private office, and the Icey of his 
roll-top desk, and the key of his safe deposit 
box, and a key to the little mail box at the front 
door of his flat (he lives in what is known as 
a pushbutton apartment house), and a key that 
does something to his motor car (not being an 
automobilist, I don't know just what), and a 
key to his locker at the golf club, and keys of 
various traveling bags and trunks and filing 
cases, and all the other keys with which a busy 
[144] 



The Key Ring 

man burdens himself. They make a noble 
clanking against his thigh when he walks (he 
is usually in a hurry), and he draws them out 
of his pocket with something of an imposing 
gesture when he approaches the ground glass 
door of his office at ten past nine every morn- 
ing. Yet sometimes he takes them out and 
looks at them sadly. They are a mark and 
symbol of servitude, just as surely as if they 
had been heated red-hot and branded on his 
skin. 

Not necessarily an unhappy servitude, I 
hasten to remark, for servitude is not always an 
unhappy condition. It may be the happiest 
of conditions, and each of those little metal 
strips may be regarded as a medal of honor. In 
fact, my friend does so regard them. He does 
not think of the key of his roll-top desk as a 
reminder of hateful tasks that must be done 
willy-nilly, but rather as an emblem of hard 
work that he enjoys and that is worth doing. 
He does not think of the latchkey as a mandate 
that he must be home by seven o'clock, rain or 
shine; nor does he thing of it as a souvenir of 
the landlord who must be infallibly paid on the 
first of the month next ensuing. No, he thinks 
of the latchkey as a magic wand that admits 
him to a realm of kindness "whose service is 
perfect freedom," as say the fine old words in 

[145] 



Mince Pie 

the prayer book. And he does not think of 
his safe deposit box as a hateful little casket 
of leases and life insurance policies and con- 
tracts and wills, but rather as the place where 
he has put some of his own past life into vol- 
untary bondage — into Liberty Bondage — at 
four and a quarter per cent. Yet, however 
blithely he may psychologize these matters, he 
is wise enough to know that he is not a free 
man. However content in servitude, he does 
not blink the fact that it is servitude. 

"Upon his will he binds a radiant chain," 
said Joyce Kilmer in a fine sonnet. However 
radiant, it is still a chain. 

So it is that sometimes, in the lulls of tele- 
phoning and signing contracts and talking to 
salesmen and preparing estimates and dictating 
letters "that must get off to-night" and trying 
to wriggle out of serving on the golf club's 
house committee, my friend flings away his 
cigar, gets a corncob pipe out of his desk 
drawer, and contemplates his key ring a trifle 
wistfully. This nubby little tyrant that he 
carries about with him always makes him think 
of a river in the far Canadian north, a river 
that he visited once, long ago, before he had 
built up all the barbed wire of life about his 
spirit. It was a green lucid river that ran in 
a purposeful way between long fringes of pine 
[146] 



The Key Ring 

trees. There were sandy shelves where he and 1 
a fellow canoist with the good gift of silence 
built campfires and fried bacon, or fish of their 
own wooing. The name of that little river 
(his voice is grave as he recalls it), was the 
Peace ; and it was not necessary to paddle if you 
didn't feel like it. "The current ran" (it is 
pathetic to hear him say it) "from four to seven 
miles an hour." 

The tobacco smoke sifts and eddies into the 
carefully labeled pigeonholes of his desk, and 
his stenographer wonders whether she dare in- 
terrupt him to ask whether that word was "pri- 
ority" or "minority" in the second paragraph 
of the memo to Mr. Ebbsmith. He smells that 
bacon again; he remembers stretching out on 
the cool sand to watch the dusk seep up from 
the valley and flood the great clear arch of 
green-blue sky. He remembers that there were 
no key rings in his pocket then, no papers, no 
letters, no engagements to meet Mr. Fonseca 
at a luncheon of the Rotary Club to discuss 
demurrage. He remembers the clear sparkle 
of the Peace water in the sunshine, its down- 
ward swell and slant over many a boulder, its 
milky vexation where it slid among stones. He 
remembers what he had said to himself then, 
but had since forgotten, that no matter what 
wounds and perplexities the world offers, it 

[147] 



Mince Pie 

also offers a cure for each one if we know where 
to seek it. Suddenly he gets a vision of the 
whole race of men, campers out on a swinging 
ball, brothers in the common motherhood of 
earth. Born out of the same inexplicable soil, 
bred to the same problems of star and wind and 
sun, what absurdity of civilization is it that 
has robbed men of this sense of kinship? Why 
he himself, he feels, could enter a Bedouin 
tent or an Eskimo snow-hut and find some bond 
of union with the inmates. The other night, 
he reflects, he saw moving pictures of some Fiji 
natives, and could read in their genial grinning 
faces the same human impulses he knew in him- 
self. What have men done to cheat themselves 
of the enjoyment of this amazing world? 
"We've been cheated!" he cries, to the stenog- 
rapher's horror. 

He thinks of his friends, his partners, his 
employees, of conductors on trains and waiters 
in lunchrooms and drivers of taxicabs. He 
thinks, in one amazing flash of realization, of 
all the men and women he has ever seen or 
heard of — how each one nourishes secretly some 
little rebellion, some dream of a wider, freer 
life, a life less hampered, less mean, less ma- 
terial. He thinks how all men yearn to cross 
salt water, to scale peaks, to tramp until weary 
under a hot sun. He hears the Peace, in its far 
[148] 



The Key Ring 

northern valley, brawling among stones, and 
his heart is very low. 

"Mr. Edwards to see you/' says the stenog- 
rapher. 

"I'm sorry, sir/' says Edwards, "but I've 
had the offer of another job and I think I shall 
accept it. It's a good thing for a chap to get 
a chance " 

My friend slips the key ring back in his 
pocket. 

"What's this?" he says. "Nonsense! When 
you've got a good job, the thing to do is to 
keep it. Stick to it, my boy. There's a great 
future for you here. Don't get any of those 
fool ideas about changing around from one 
thing to another." 



[149] 



"OWD BOB" 

Chapter I 

(introduces our hero) 

LOITERING perchance on the western 
pavement of Madison avenue, between the 
streets numbered 38 and 39, and gazing with 
an observant eye upon the pedestrians passing 
southward, you would be likely to see, about 
8 :40 o'clock of the morning, a gentleman of 
Temarkable presence approaching with no bird- 
like tread. This creature, clad in a suit of sub- 
fuse respectable weave, bearing in his hand a 
cane of stout timber with a right-angled horn- 
blende grip, and upon his head a hat of rich 
texture, would probably also carry in one hand 
(the left) a leather case filled with valuable 
papers, and in the other hand (the right, which 
also held the cane) a cigarette, lit upon leaving 
the Grand Central subway station. This cigar- 
ette the person of our tale would frequentatively 
^pply to his lips, and then withdraw with a 
[150] 



"Owd Bob" 

quick, swooping motion. With a rapid, some- 
what sidelong gait (at first somehow clumsy, 
yet upon closer observation a mode of motion 
seen to embrace certain elements of harmony) 
this gentleman would converge upon the south- 
west corner of Madison avenue and 38th street; 
and the intent observer, noting the menacing 
contours of the face, would conclude that he 
was going to work. 




This gentleman, beneath his sober but ex- 
cellently haberdashered surtout, was plainly a 
man of large frame, of a Sam Johnsonian 
mould, but, to the surprise of the calculating 
observer, it would be noted that his volume 
(or mass) was not what his bony structure im- 
plied. Spiritually, in deed, this interesting 
individual conveyed to the world a sensation of 
stoutness, of bulk and solidity, which (upon 
scrutiny) was not (or would not be) verified by 
measurement. Evidently, you will conclude, 
a stout man grown thin; or, at any rate, grown 

[151] 



Mince Pie 

less stout. His molded depth, one might 
assess at 20 inches between the eaves ; his longi- 
tude, say, five feet eleven; his registered ton- 
nage, 170: his cargo, literary; and his destina- 
tion, the editorial sancta of a well-known pub- 
lishing house. 

This gentleman, in brief, is Mr. Robert Cortes 
Holliday (but not the "stout Cortes" of the 
poet), the editor of The Bookman. 



Chapter II 
(our hero begins a career) 

"It would seem that whenever Nature had a man 

of letters up her sleeve, the first gift with which she 

has felt necessary to dower him has been a preacher 

sire." 

R. C. H. of N. B. Tarkington. 

Mr. Holliday was born in Indianapolis on 
July 18, 1880. It is evident that ink, piety 
and copious speech circulated in the veins of 
his clan, for at least two of his grandfathers 
were parsons, and one of them, Dr. Ferdinand 
Cortez Holliday, was the author of a volume 
called "Indiana Methodism" in which he was 
the biographer of the Rev. Joseph Tarkington, 
the grandfather of Newton B. Tarkington, 
sometimes heard of as Booth Tarkington, a 
[152] 



"Owd Bob" 

novelist. Thus the hand of Robert C. Holli- 
day was linked by the manacle of destiny to 
the hand of Newton B. Tarkington, and it is 
a quaint satisfaction to note that Mr. Holliday's 
first book was that volume "Booth Tarkington/' 
one of the liveliest and soundest critical me- 
moirs it has been our fortune to enjoy. 

Like all denizens of Indianapolis — "Tarking- 
tonapolis," Mr. Holliday calls it — our subject 
will discourse at considerable volume of his 
youth in that high-spirited city. His recollec- 
tions, both sacred and profane, are, however, 
not in our present channel. After a reputable 
schooling young Robert proceeded to New York 
in 1899 to study art at the Art Students' League, 
and later became a pupil of Twachtman. The 
present commentator is not in a position to 
say how severely either art or Mr. Holliday 
suifered in the mutual embrace. I have seen 
some of his black and white posters which 
seemed to me robust and considerably lively. 
At any rate, Mr. Holliday exhibited drawings 
on Fifth avenue and had illustrative work pub- 
lished by Scribner's Magazine. He did com- 
mercial designs and comic pictures for juvenile 
readers. At this time he lived in a rural com- 
munity of artists in Connecticut, and did his 
own cooking. Also, he is proud of having lived 
in a garret on Broome street. This phase of 

[153] 



Mince Pie 

his career is not to be slurred over, for it is a 
clue to much of his later work. His writing 
often displays the keen eye of the painter, and 
his familiarity with the technique of pencil 
and brush has much enriched his capacity to 
see and to make his reader see with him. Such 
essays as "Going to Art Exhibitions/' and the 
one-third dedication of "Walking-Stick Papers" 
to Royal Cortissoz are due to his interest in the 
world as pictures. 

While we think of it, then, let us put down 
our first memorandum upon the art of Mr. Hol- 
liday : 

First Memo — Mr. Holliday's stuff is distilled 
from life ! 

Chapter III 

(in which our hero darts off at a tangent) 

It is not said why our hero abandoned bristol 
board and india ink, and it is no duty of this in- 
quirendo to offer surmise. The fact is that 
he disappeared from Broome street, and after 
the appropriate interval might have been ob- 
served (odd as it seems) on the campus of the 
University of Kansas. This vault into the pet- 
als of the sunflower seems so quaint that I once 
attempted to find out from Mr. Holliday just 
when it was that he attended courses at that 
[154] 



"Owd Bob" 

institution. He frankly said that he could not 
remember. Now he has no memory at all for 
dates, I will vouch; yet it seems odd (I say) 
that he did not even remember the numerals 
of the class in which he was enrolled. A "queer 
feller/' indeed, as Mr. Tarkington has called 
him. So I cannot attest, with hand on Book, 
that he really was at Kansas University. He 
may have been a footpad during that period. 
I have often thought to write to the dean of the 
university and check the matter up. It may 
be that entertaining anecdotes of our hero's 
college career could be spaded up. 

Just why this remote atheneum was sconce 
for Mr. Holliday's candle I do not hazard. 
It seems I have heard him say that his cousin, 
Professor Wilbur Cortez Abbott (of Yale) 
was then teaching at the Kansas college, and 
this was the reason. It doesn't matter now; 
fifty years hence it may be of considerable im- 
portance. 

However, we must press on a little faster. 
From Kansas he returned to New York and be- 
came a salesman in the book store of Charles 
Scribner's Sons, then on Fifth avenue below 
Twenty-third street. Here he was employed 
for about five years. From this experience may 
be traced three of the most delightful of the 
"Walking-Stick Papers." It was while at 

[155] 



Mince Pie 

Scribner 's that he met Joyce Kilmer, who also 
served as a Scribner book-clerk for two weeks 
in 1909. This friendship meant more to Bob 
Holliday than any other. The two men were 
united by intimate adhesions of temperament 
and worldly situation. Those who know what 
friendship means among men who have stood 
on the bottom rung together will ask no further 
comment. Kilmer was Holliday's best man in 
1913; Holliday stood godfather to Kilmer's 
daughter Rose. On Aug. 22, 1918, Mrs. Kil- 
mer appointed Mr. Holliday her husband's lit- 
erary executor. His memoir of Joyce Kilmer 
is a fitting token of the manly affection that 
sweetens life and enriches him who even sees 
it from a distance. 

Just when Holliday's connection with the 
Scribner store ceased I do not know. My guess 
is, about 1911. He did some work for the New 
York Public Library (tucking away in his files 
the material for the essay "Human Municipal 
Documents") and also dabbled in eleemosynary 
science for the Russell Sage Foundation ; though 
the details of the latter enterprise I cannot even 
conjecture. Somehow or other he fell into the 
most richly amusing post that a belletristic jour- 
nalist ever adorned, as general factotum of 
The Fishing Gazette, a trade journal. This is 
laid bare for the world in "The Fish Reporter." 
[156] 



"Owd Bob" 

About 1911 he began to contribute humorous 
sketches to the Saturday Magazine of the New 
York Evening Post. In 1912-13 he was writing 
signed reviews for the New York Times Review 
of Books. 1913-14 he was assistant literary- 
editor of the New York Tribune. His medi- 
tations on the reviewing job are embalmed in 




"That Reviewer Cuss." In 1914 the wear and 
tear of continual hard work on Grub Street 
rather got the better of him: he packed a bag 
and spent the summer in England. Four charm- 
ing essays record his adventures there, where 
we may leave him for the moment while we 
warm up to another aspect of the problem. Let 
us just set down our second memorandum: 

Second Memo — Mr. Holliday knows the Lit- 
erary Game from All Angles! 

Chapter IV 

(our hero's book and heart shall never 
part) 

Perhaps I should apologize for treating Mr. 
Holliday's "Walking-Stick Papers" in this bio- 

[157] 



Mince Pie 

graphical fashion. And yet I cannot resist it, 
for this book is Mr. Holliday himself. It is 
mellow, odd, aromatic and tender, just as he 
is. It is (as he said of something else) "sat- 
urated with a distinguished, humane tradition 
of letters." 

The book is exciting reading because you can 
trace in it the growth and felicitous toughening 
of a very remarkable talent. Mr. Holliday has 
been through a lively and gruelling mill. Like 
every sensitive journalist, he has been mangled 
at Ephesus. Slight and debonair as some of 
his pieces are, there is not one that is not an 
authentic fiber from life. That is the beauty of 
this sort of writing — the personal essay — it ad- 
mits us to the very pulse of the machine. We 
see this man: selling books at Scribner's, pac- 
ing New York streets at night gloating on the 
yellow windows and the random ring of words, 
fattening his spirit on hundreds of books, con- 
cocting his own theory of the niceties of 
prose. We see that volatile humor which is 
native in him flickering like burning brandy 
round the rich plum pudding of his theme. 
With all his playfulness, when he sets out to 
achieve a certain effect he builds cunningly, 
with sure and skillful art. See (for instance) in 
his "As to People," his superbly satisfying 
picture (how careless it seems !) of his scrub- 
[158] 



"Owd Bob" 

woman, closing with the precis of Billy Hender- 
son's wife, which drives the nail through and 
turns it on the under side — 

Billy Henderson's wife is handsome; she is rich; she 
is an excellent cook; she loves Billy Henderson. 

See "My friend the Policeman/' or "On Go- 
ing a Journey/' or "The Deceased" — this last 
is perhaps the high-water mark of the book. 
To vary the figure, this essay dips its Plimsoll- 
mark full under. It is freighted with far more 
than a dozen pages might be expected to carry 
safely. So quietly, so quaintly told, what a 
wealth of humanity is in it! Am I wrong in 
thinking that those fellow-artists who know 
the thrill of a great thing greatly done will 
catch breath when they read this, of the minor 
obits in the press — 

We go into the feature headed "Died," a depart- 
ment similar to that on the literary page headed 
"Books Received." . . . We are set in small type, 
with lines following the name line indented. It is 
difficult for me to tell with certainty from the print- 
ed page, but I think we are set without leads. 

In such passages, where the easy sporting- 
tweed fabric of Mr. Holliday's merry and lib- 
eral style fits his theme as snugly as the burr 
its nut, one feels tempted to cry joyously (as 
he says in some other connection), "it seems as 

[159] 



Mince Pie 

if it were a book you had written yourself in 
a dream." And follow him, for sheer fun, in 
the "Going a Journey" essay. Granted that it 
would never have been written but for Hazlitt 
and Stevenson and Belloc. Yet it is fresh dis- 
tilled, it has its own sparkle. Beginning with 
an even pace, how it falls into a swinging stride, 
drugs you with hilltops and blue air ! Crisp, 
metrical, with a steady drum of feet, it lifts, 
purges and sustains. "This is the religious 
side" of reading an essay! 

Mr. Holliday, then, gives us in generous 
measure the "certain jolly humors" which 
R. L. S. says we voyage to find. He throws 
off flashes of imaginative felicity — as where he 
says of canes, "They are the light to blind 
men." Where he describes Mr. Oliver Herford 
"listing to starboard, like a postman." Where 
he says of the English who use colloquially 
phrases known to us only in great literature — 
"There are primroses in their speech." And 
where he begins his "Memoirs of a Manuscript," 
"I was born in Indiana." 

We are now ready to let fall our third memo- 
randum : 

Third Memo — Behind his colloquial, easy- 
going (apparently careless) utterance, Mr. 
Holliday conceals a high quality of literary art. 
[160] 



"Owd Bob" 

Chapter V 

(further oscillations op our hero) 

Mr. Holliday was driven home from England 
and Police Constable Buckington by the war, 
which broke out while he was living in Chelsea. 
My chronology is a bit mixed here; just what 
he was doing from autumn, 1914, to February, 
1916, I don't know. Was it then that he held 
the fish reporter job? Come to think of it, 
I believe it was. Anyway, in February, 191 6, 
he turned up in Garden City, Long Island, 
where I first had the excitement of clapping 
eyes on him. Some of the adventures of that 
spring and summer may be inferred from 
"Memories of a Manuscript." Others took 
place in the austere lunch cathedral known at 
the press of Doubleday, Page & Company as 
the "garage," or on walks that summer between 
the Country Life Press and the neighboring 
champaigns of Hempstead. The full story of 
the Porrier's Corner Club, of which Mr. Holli- 
day and myself are the only members, is yet 
to be told. As far as I was concerned it was 
love at first sight. This burly soul, rumbling 
Johnsonianly upon lettered topics, puffing un- 
ending Virginia cigarettes, gazing with shy 
humor through thick-paned spectacles — well, on 

[161] 



Mince Pie 

Friday, June 23, 191 6, Bob and I decided to 
collaborate in writing a farcical novel. It is 
still unwritten, save the first few chapters. I 
only instance this to show how fast passion 
proceeded. 

It would not surprise me if at some future 
time Mrs. Bedell's boarding house, on Jackson 
Street in Hempstead, becomes a place of pil- 
grimage for lovers of the essay. They will 
want to see the dark little front room on the 
ground floor where Owd Bob used to scatter the 
sheets of his essays as he was retyping them 
from a huge scrapbook and grooming them for 
a canter among publishers' sanhedrim. They 
will want to see (but will not, I fear) the cool 
barrel-room at the back of George D. Smith's 
tavern, an ale-house that was blithe to our 
fancy because the publican bore the same name 
as that of a very famous dealer in rare books. 
Along that pleasant bar, with its shining brass 
scuppers, Bob and I consumed many beakers 
of well-chilled amber during that warm sum- 
mer. His urbanolatrous soul pined for the 
city, and he used in those days to expound the 
doctrine that the suburbanite really has to go 
to town in order to get fresh air. 

In September, 1916, Holliday's health broke 
down. He had been feeling poorly most of the 
summer, and continuous hard work induced a 
[162] 



"Owd Bob" 

spell of nervous depression. Very wisely he 
went back to Indianapolis to rest. After a 
good lay-off he tackled the Tarkington book, 
which was written in Indianapolis the following 
winter and spring. And "Walking-Stick Pa- 
pers" began to go the rounds. 

I have alluded more than once to Mr. Holli- 
day 's book on Tarkington. This original, mel- 
low, convivial, informal and yet soundly argued 
critique has been overlooked by many who have 
delighted to honor Holliday as an essayist. 
But it is vastly worth reading. It is a brilliant 
study, full of "onion atoms" as Sydney Smith's 
famous salad, and we flaunt it merrily in the 
face of those who are frequently crapehanging 
and dirging that we have no sparkling young 
Chestertons and Rebecca Wests and J. C. 
Squires this side of Queenstown harbor. Rarely 
have creator and critic been joined in so felic- 
itous a marriage. And indeed the union was 
appointed in heaven and smiles in the blood, 
for (as I have noted) Mr. Holliday 's grand- 
father was the biographer of Tarkington 's 
grandsire, also a pioneer preacher of the meta- 
physical commonwealth of Indiana. Mr. Hol- 
liday traces with a good deal of humor and 
circumstance the various ways in which the gods 
gave Mr. Tarkington just the right kind of 
ancestry, upbringing, boyhood and college 

[163] 



Mince Pie 

^career to produce a talented writer. But the 
fates that catered to Tarkington with such gen- 
erous hand never dealt him a better run of 
cards than when Holliday wrote this book. x 

The study is one of surpassing interest, not 
merely as a service to native criticism but as a 
revelation of Holliday's ability to follow 
through a sustained intellectual task with the 
same grasp and grace that he afterward showed 
in the memoir of Kilmer in which his heart was 
so deeply engaged. Of a truth, Mr. Holliday's 
success in putting himself within Tarkington's 
dashing checked kuppenheimers is a fine 
achievement of projected psychology. He 
knows Tarkington so well that if the latter 
were unhappily deleted by some "wilful convul- 
sion of brute nature" I think it undoubtable 
that his biographer could reconstruct a very 
plausible automaton, and would know just what 
ingredients to blend. A dash of Miss Austen, 
Joseph Conrad, Henry James and Daudet; 
flavored perhaps with coal smoke from Indian- 
apolis, spindrift from the Maine coast and a 
few twanging chords from the Princeton Glee 
Club. 

Fourth Memo — Mr. Holliday is critic as well 
.as essayist. 



[164] 



"Owd Bob" 

Chapter VI 
c (our hero finds a steady job) 

It was the summer of 1917 when Owd Bob 
came back to New York. Just at that juncture 
I happened to hear that a certain publisher 
needed an editorial man, and when Bob and I 
were at Browne's discussing the fate of "Walk- 
ing-Stick Papers" over a jug of shandy gaff, I 
told him this news. He hurried to the office 
in question through a drenching rain-gust, and 
has been there ever since. The publisher per- 
formed an act of perspicuity rare indeed. He 
not only accepted the manuscript, but its au- 
thor as well. 

So that is the story of "Walking-Stick Pa- 
pers," and it does not cause me to droop if you 
say I talk of matters of not such great moment. 
What a joy it would have been if some friend 
had jotted down memoranda of this sort con- 
cerning some of Elia's doings. The book is 
a garner of some of the most racy, vigorous and 
genuinely flavored essays that this country has 
produced for some time. Dear to me, every 
one of them, as clean-cut blazes by a sincere 
workman along a trail full of perplexity and 
struggle, as Grub Street always will be for the 
man who dips an honest pen that will not stoop 

[165] 



Mince Pie 

to conquer. And if you should require an ac- 
curate portrait of their author I cannot do 
better than quote what Grote said of Socrates: 

Nothing could be more public, perpetual, and In- 
discriminate as to persons than his conversation. 
But as it was engaging, curious, and instructive to 
hear, certain persons made it their habit to attend 
him as companions and listeners. 

Owd Bob has long been the object of ex- 
treme attachment and high spirits among his 
intimates. The earlier books have been fol- 
lowed by "Broome Street Straws" and "Peeps 
at People/' vividly personal collections that 
will arouse immediate affection and amusement 
among his readers. And of these books will be 
said (once more in Grote's words about Soc- 
rates) : 

Not only his conversation reached the minds of a 
much wider circle, but he became more abundantly 
known as a person. 

H,et us add, then, our final memorandum: 
Fifth Memo — These essays are the sort of 
thing you cannot afford to miss. In them you 
sit down to warm your wits at the glow of a 
droll, delightful, unique mind. 

So much (at the moment) for Bob Holliday. 
[166] 



THE APPLE THAT NO ONE ATE 




THE other evening we went to dinner with 
a gentleman whom it pleases our fancy 
to call the Caliph. 

Now a Caliph, according to our notion, is 
a Haroun-al-Raschid kind of person; one who 
governs a large empire of hearts with a genial 
and whimsical sway; circulating secretly among 
his fellow-men, doing kindnesses often not even 
suspected by their beneficiaries. He is the sort 
of person of whom the trained observer may 
think, when he hears an unexpected kindness- 
grenade exploding somewhere down the line, 
"I'll bet that came from the Caliph's dugout!" 
A Caliph's heart is not surrounded by barbed 

[167] 



Mince Pie 

wire entanglements or a strip of No Man's 
Land. Also, and rightly, he is stern to male- 
factors and fakers of all sorts. 

It would have been sad if any one so un- 
Caliphlike as William Hohenzollern had got his 
eisenbahn through to Bagdad, the city sacred 
to the memory of a genial despot who spent 
his cabarabian nights in an excellent fashion. 
That, however, has nothing to do with the 
story. 

Mr. and Mrs. Caliph are people so delightful 
that they leave in one's mind a warm afterglow 
of benevolent sociability. They have an infinite 
interest and curiosity in the hubbub of human 
moods and crotchets that surrounds us all. 
And when one leaves their doorsill one has a 
genial momentum of the spirit that carries one 
on rapidly and cheerfully. One has an irre- 
sistible impulse to give something away, to 
stroke the noses of horses, to write a kind letter 
to the fuel administrator or do almost anything 
gentle and gratuitous. The Caliphs of the 
world don't know it, but that is the effect they 
produce on their subjects. 

As we left, Mr. and Mrs. Caliph pressed 
upon us an apple. One of those gorgeous ap- 
ples that seem to grow wrapped up in tissue 
paper, and are displayed behind plate glass 
windows. A huge apple, tinted with gold and 
[168] 



The Apple That No One Ate 

crimson and pale yellow shading off to pink. 
The kind of apple "whose colors are overlaid 
with a curious mist until you polish it on your 
coat, when it gleams like a decanter of claret. 
An apple so large and weighty that if it had 
dropped on Sir Isaac Newton it would have 
fractured his skull. The kind of apple that 
would have made the garden of Eden safe for 
democracy, because it is so beautiful no one 
would have thought of eating it. 

That was the kind of apple the Caliph gave 
us. 

It was a cold night, and we walked down 
Chestnut street dangling that apple, rubbing 
it on our sleeve, throwing it up and down and 
catching it again. We stopped at a cigar store 
to buy some pipe tobacco. Still running on 
Caliph, by which we mean still beguiled by his 
geniality, we fell into talk with the tobacconist. 
"That's a fine apple you have there," said he. 
For an instant we thought of giving it to him, 
but then we reflected that a man whose days 
are spent surrounded by rich cigars and smok- 
ables is dangerously felicitous already, and a 
sudden joy might blast his blood vessels. 

The shining of the street lamps was reflected 
on the polished skin of our fruit as we went 
our way. As we held it in our arms it glowed 
like a huge ruby. We passed a blind man 

[169] 



Mince Pie 

selling pencils, and thought of giving it to 
him. Then we reflected that a blind man 
would lose half the pleasure of the adventure 
because he couldn't see the colors. We bought 
a pencil instead. Still running on Caliph, you 
see. 

In our excitement we did what we always do 
in moments of stress — went into a restaurant 
and ordered a piece of hot mince pie. Then 
we remembered that we had just dined. Never 
mind, we sat there and contemplated the apple 
as it lay ruddily on the white porcelain table- 
top. Should we give it to the waitress? No, 
because apples were a commonplace to her. 
The window of the restaurant held a great pyra- 
mid of beauties. To her, an apple was merely 
something to be eaten, instead of the symbol 
of a grand escapade. Instead, we gave her a 
little medallion of a buffalo that happened to 
be in our pocket. 

Already the best possible destination for that 
apple had come to our mind. Hastening zeal- 
ously up a long flight of stairs in a certain 
large building we went to a corner where sits 
a friend of ours, a night watchman. Under 
a drop light he sits through long and tedious 
hours, beguiling his vigil with a book. He 
is a great reader. He eats books alive. Lately 
he has become much absorbed in Saint Francis 
[170] 



The Apple That No One Ate 

of Assisi, and was deep in the "Little Flowers" 
when we found him. 

"We've brought you something," we said, and 
held the apple where the electric light brought 
out all its brilliance. 

He was delighted and his gentle elderly face 
shone with awe at the amazing vividness of the 
fruit. 

"I tell you what I'll do," he said. "That 
apple's much too fine for me. I'll take it home 
to the wife." 

Of course his wife will say the same thing. 
She will be embarrassed by the surpassing 
splendor of that apple and will give it to some 
friend of hers whom she thinks more worthy 
than herself. And that friend will give it 
to some one else, and so it will go rolling on 
down the ages, passing from hand to hand, con- 
ferring delight, and never getting eaten. Ulti- 
mately some one, trying to think of a recipient 
really worthy of its deliciousness, will give it 
to Mr. and Mrs. Caliph. And they, blessed in- 
nocents, will innocently exclaim, "Why we never 
saw such a magnificent apple in all our lives." 

And it will be true, for by that time the 
apple will gleam with an unearthly brightness, 
enhanced and burnished by all the kind thoughts 
that have surrounded it for so long. 

As we walked homeward under a frosty 

[171] 



Mince Pie 

sparkle of sky we mused upon all the different 
kinds of apples we have encountered. There 
are big glossy green apples and bright red 
apples and yellow apples and also that par- 
ticularly delicious kind (whose name we for- 
get) that is the palest possible cream color — al- 
most white. We have seen apples of strange 
shapes, something like a pear (sheepnoses, they 
call them), and the Maiden Blush apples with 
their delicate shading of yellow and debutante 
pink. And what a poetry in the names — Wine- 
sap, Pippin, Northern Spy, Baldwin, Ben 
Davis, York Imperial, Wolf River, Jonathan, 
Smokehouse, Summer Rambo, Rome Beauty, 
Golden Grimes, Shenango Strawberry, Benoni ! 

We suppose there is hardly a man who has 
not an apple orchard tucked away in his heart 
somewhere. There must be some deep rea- 
son for the old suspicion that the Garden of 
Eden was an apple orchard. Why is it that 
a man can sleep and smoke better under an 
apple tree than in any other kind of shade? 
Sir Isaac Newton was a wise man, and he chose 
an apple tree to sit beneath. (We have often 
wondered, by the way, how it is that no one 
has ever named an apple the Woolsthorpe after 
Newton's home in Lincolnshire, where the fa- 
mous apple incident occurred.) 

An apple orchard, if it is to fill the heart of 
[172] 



The Apple That No One Ate 

man to the full with affectionate satisfaction, 
should straggle down a hillside toward a lake 
and a white road where the sun shines hotly. 
Some of its branches should trail over an old, 
lichened and weather-stained stone wall, drop- 
ping their fruit into the highway for thirsty 
pedestrians. There should be a little path 
running athwart it, down toward the lake and 
the old flat-bottomed boat, whose bilge is scat- 
tered with the black and shriveled remains of 
angleworms used for bait. In warm August 
afternoons the sweet savor of ripening drifts 
warmly on the air, and there rises the drowsy 
hum of wasps exploring the windfalls that are 
already rotting on the grass. There you may 
lie watching the sky through the chinks of the 
leaves, and imagining the cool, golden tang of 
this autumn's cider vats. 

You see what it is to have Caliphs in the 
world. 



[173] 



AS TO RUMORS 

MADRID, Jan. 17. — Nikolai Lenine was among 
the Russians who landed at Barcelona recently, ac- 
cording to newspapers here. — News item. 

IT is rather important to understand the tech- 
nique of rumors. The wise man does not 
scoff at them, for while they are often absurd, 
they are rarely baseless. People do not go about 
inventing rumors, except for purposes of 
hoax; and even a practical joke is never (to 
parody the proverb) hoax et praeterea nihil. 
There is always a reason for wanting to per- 
petrate the hoaXj or a reason for believing it 
will be believed. 

Rumors are a kind of exhalation or intellec- 
tual perfume thrown off by the news of the 
day. Some events are more aromatic than 
others; they can be detected by the trained 
pointer long before they happen. When things 
are going on that have a strong vibration — what 
foreign correspondents love to call a "repercus- 
sion" — they cause a good deal of mind-quak- 
ing. An event getting ready to happen is one of 
the most interesting things to watch. By a 
[174] ■ 



As to Rumors 

sort of mental radiation it fills men's minds 
with surmises and conjectures. Curiously 
enough, due perhaps to the innate perversity of 
man, most of the rumors suggest the exact op- 
posite of what is going to happen. Yet a ru- 
mor, while it may be wholly misleading as to 
fact, is always a proof that something is going 
to happen. For instance, last summer when 
the news was full of repeated reports of Hin- 
denburg's death, any sane man could foresee 
that what these reports really meant was not 
necessarily Hindenburg's death at all, but Ger- 
many's approaching military collapse. Some 
German prisoners had probably said "Hinden- 
burg ist kaput," meaning "Hindenburg is done 
for," i.e., "The great offensive has failed." This 
was taken to mean that he was literally dead. 
In the same way, while probably no one 
seriously believes that Lenine is in Barcelona, 
the mere fact that Madrid thinks it possible 
shows very plainly that something is going on. 
It shows either that the Bolshevik experiment in 
Petrograd has been such a gorgeous success 
that Lenine can turn his attention to foreign 
campaigning, or that it has been such a gorgeous 
failure that he has had to skip. It does not 
prove, since the rumor is "unconfirmed," that 
Lenine has gone anywhere yet; but it certainly 
does prove that he is going somewhere soon, 

[175] 



Mince Pie 

even if only to the fortress of Peter and Paul. 
There may be some very simple explanation of 
the rumor. "You go to Barcelona !" may be a 
jocular Muscovite catchword, similar to our 
old saying about going to Halifax, and Trotzky 
may have said it to Lenine. At any rate, it 
shows that the gold dust twins are not insep- 
arable. It shows that Bolshevism in Russia is 
either very strong or very near downfall. 

When we were told not long ago that Berlin 
was strangely gay for the capital of a pros- 
trate nation and that all the cafes were crowded 
with dancers at night, many readers were 
amazed and tried to console their sense of prob- 
ability by remarking that the Germans are 
crazy anyway. And yet this rumor of the 
dancing mania was an authentic premonition 
of the bloodier dance of death led by the Spar- 
tacus group. If Berlin did dance it was a 
cotillon of despair, caused by infinite war weari- 
ness, infinite hunger to forget humiliation for a 
few moments, and foreboding of troubles to 
come. Whether true or not, no one read the 
news without thinking it an ominous whisper. 

Coming events cast their rumors before. 
From a careful study of rumors the discerning 
may learn a good deal, providing always that 
they never take them at face value but try to 
read beneath the surface. People sometimes 
[176] 



As to Rumors 

criticize the newspapers for printing rumors, 
but it is an essential part of their function to 
do so, provided they plainly mark them as such. 
Shakespeare speaks of rumors as "stuffing the 
ears of men with false reports/' yet if so this is 
not the fault of the rumor itself, but of the 
too credible listener. The prosperity of a ru- 
mor is in the ear that hears it. The sagacious 
listener will take the trouble to sift and win- 
now his rumors, set them in perspective with 
what he knows of the facts and from them he 
will then deduce exceedingly valuable considera- 
tions. Rumor is the living atmosphere of men's 
minds, the most fascinating and significant 
problem with which we have to deal. The Fact, 
the Truth, may shine like the sun, but after all 
it is the clouds that make the sunset beautiful. 
Keep your eye on the rumors, for a sufficient 
number of rumors can compel an event to hap- 
pen, even against its will. 

No one can set down any hard and fast rules 
for reading the rumors. The process is partly 
instinctive and partly the result of trained ob- 
servation. It is as complicated as the calcula- 
tion by which a woman tells time by her watch 
which she knows to be wrong — she adds seven- 
teen minutes, subtracts three, divides by two 
and then looks at the church steeple. It is as 
exhilarating as trying to deduce what there is 

[177] 



Mince Pie 

going to be for supper by the pervasive fra- 
grance of onions in the front hall. And some- 
times a very small event, like a very small 
onion, can cast its rumors a long way. Des- 
tiny is unlike the hen in that she cackles before 
she lays the egg. 

The first rule to observe about rumors is that 
they are often exactly opposite in tendency to 
the coming fact. For instance, the rumors of 
secrecy at the Peace Conference were the one 
thing necessary to guarantee complete publicity. 
Just before any important event occurs it seems 
to discharge both positive and negative currents, 
just as a magnet is polarized by an electric coil. 
Some people by mental habit catch the negative 
vibrations, others the positive. Every one can 
remember the military critics last March who 
were so certain that there would be no German 
offensive. Their very certainty was to many 
others a proof that the offensive was likely. 
They were full of the negative vibrations. 

An interesting case of positive vibrations was 
the repeated rumor of the Kaiser's abdication. 
The fact that those rumors were premature was 
insignificant compared with the fact that they 
were current at all. The fact that there were 
such rumors showed that it was only a matter 
of time. 

It is entertaining, if disconcerting, to watch 
[178] 



As to Rumors 

a rumor on its travels. A classic example of 
this during the recent war is exhibited by the 
following clippings which were collected, I be- 
lieve, by Norman Hapgood: 

From the Koelnische-Zeitung : 

"When the fall of Antwerp became known 
the church bells were rung." (Meaning in Ger- 
many.) 




From the Paris Matin: 

'According to the Koelnische-Zeitung, the 
clergy of Antwerp were compelled to ring the 
church bells when the fortress was taken." 

From the London Times: 

"According to what the Matin has heard from 
Cologne, the Belgian priests^ who refused to 
ring the church bells when Antwerp was taken, 
have been driven away from their places." 

From the Corriere Delia Sera, of Milan: 

"According to what the Times has heard 
from Cologne, via Paris, the unfortunate Bel- 

[179] 



Mince Pie 

gian priests, who refused to ring the church 
bells when Antwerp was taken, have been sen- 
tenced to hard labor." 

From the Matin again: 

"According to information received by the 
Corriere Delia Sera, from Cologne, via London, 
it is confirmed that the barbaric conquerors of 
Antwerp punished the unfortunate Belgian 
priests for their heroic refusal to ring the church 
bells by hanging them as living clappers to the 
bells with their heads down." 

Be hospitable to rumors, for however gro- 
tesque they are, they always have some reason 
for existence. The Sixth Sense is the sense oi 
news, the sense that something is going to hap- 
pen. And just as every orchestra utters queer 
and discordant sounds while it is tuning up its 
instruments, so does the great orchestra of Hu- 
man Events (in other words, The News) offer 
shrill and perhaps misleading notes before the 
conductor waves his baton and leads off the con- 
certed crash of Truth. Keep your senses alert 
to examine the odd scraps of hearsay that you 
will often see in the news, for it is in just those 
eavesdroppings at the heart of humanity that 
the press often fulfills its highest function. 



[180] 



OUR MOTHERS 




WHEN one becomes a father, then first one 
becomes a son. Standing by the crib of 
one's own baby, with that world-old pang of 
compassion and protectiveness toward this so 
little creature that has all its course to run, the 
heart flies back in yearning and gratitude to 
those who felt just so toward one's self. Then 
for the first time one understands the homely 
succession of sacrifices and pains by which life 
is transmitted and fostered down the stumbling 
generations of men. 

Every man is privileged to believe all his life 
that his own mother is the best and dearest that 
a child ever had. By some strange racial in- 
stinct of taciturnity and repression most of us 
lack utterance to say our thoughts in this close 

[181] 



Mince Pie 

matter. A man's mother is so tissued and woven 
into his life and brain that he can no more 
describe her than describe the air and sunlight 
that bless his days. It is only when some Bar- 
rie comes along that he can say for all of us 
what fills the eye with instant tears of gentle- 
ness. Is there a mother, is there a son, who has 
not read Barrie's "Margaret Ogilvy?" Turn to 
that first chapter, "How My Mother Got Her 
Soft Face," and draw aside the veils that years 
and perplexity weave over the inner sanctuaries 
of our hearts. 

Our mothers understand us so well! Speech 
and companionship with them are so easy, so un- 
obstructed by the thousand teasing barriers that 
bar soul from eager soul! To walk and talk 
with them is like slipping on an old coat. To 
hear .their voices is like the shake of music in a 
sober evening hush. 

There is a harmony and beauty in the life of 
mother and son that brims the mind's cup of sat- 
isfaction. So well we remember when she was 
all in all; strength, tenderness, law and life 
itself. Her arms were the world : her soft cheek 
our sun and stars. And now it is we who are 
strong and self-sufficing; it is she who leans 
on us. Is there anything so precious, so com- 
plete, so that return of life's pendulum? 

And it is as grandmothers that our mothers 
[182] 



Our Mothers 

come into the fullness of their grace. When a 
man's mother holds his child in her gladdened 
arms he is aware (with some instinctive sense 
of propriety) of the roundness of life's cycle; 
of the mystic harmony of life's ways. There 
speaks humanity in its chord of three notes : its 
little capture of completeness and joy, sounding 
for a moment against the silent flux of time. 
Then the perfect span is shredded away and is 
but a holy memory. 

The world, as we tread its puzzling paths, 
shows many profiles and glimpses of wonder 
and loveliness; many shapes and symbols to 
entrance and astound. Yet it will ofFer us noth- 
ing more beautiful than our mother's face; no 
memory more dear than her encircling tender- 
ness. The mountain tops of her love rise as 
high in ether as any sun-stained alp. Lakes 
are no deeper and no purer blue than her bot- 
tomless charity. We need not fare further than 
her immortal eyes to know that life is good. 

How strangely fragmentary our memories of 
her are, and yet (when we piece them together) 
how they erect a comfortable background for all 
we are and dream. She built the earth about 
us and arched us over with sky. She created 
our world, taught us to dwell therein. The pas- 
sion of her love compelled the rude laws of life 
to stand back while we were soft and helpless. 

[183] 



Mince Pie 

She defied gravity that we might not fall. She 
set aside hunger, sleep and fear that we might 
have plenty. She tamed her own spirit and 
crushed her own weakness that we might be 
strong. And when we passed down the laugh- 
ing street of childhood and turned that corner 
that all must pass, it was her hand that waved 
good-bye. Then, smothering the ache, with 
one look into the secret corner where the old 
keepsakes lie hid, she set about waiting the 
day when the long-lost baby would come back 
anew. The grandchild — is he not her own boy 
returned to her arms? 

Who can lean over a crib at night, marveling 
upon that infinite innocence and candor swathed 
in the silk cocoon of childish sleep, without 
guessing the throb of fierce gentleness that runs 
in maternal blood? The earth is none too rich 
in compassion these days: let us be grateful to 
the mothers for what remains. It was not they 
who filled the world with spies and quakings. 
It was not a cabal of mothers that met to de- 
cree blood and anguish for the races of men. 
They know that life is built at too dear a price 
to be so lathered in corruption and woe. Those 
who create life, who know its humility, its ten- 
der fabric and its infinite price, who have cher- 
ished and warmed and fed it, do not lightly 
cast it into the pit. 
[184] 



Our Mothers 

Mothers are great in the eyes of their sons 
because they are knit in our minds with all the 
littlenesses of life, the unspeakably dear trifles 
and odds of existence. The other day I found 
in my desk a little strip of tape on which my 
name was marked a dozen times in drawing ink, 
in my mother's familiar script. My mind ran 
back to the time when that little band of humble 
linen was a kind of passport into manhood. It 
was when I went away from home and she could 
no longer mark my garments with my name, 
for the confusion of rapacious laundries. I was 
to cut off the autographed sections of this tape 
and sew them on such new vestments as came 
my way. Of course I did not do so; what boy 
would be faithful to so feminine a trust? But 
now the little tape, soiled by a dozen years of 
wandering, lies in my desk drawer as a symbol 
and souvenir of that endless forethought and 
loving kindness. 

They love us not wisely but too well, it is 
sometimes said. Ah, in a world where so many 
love us not well but too wisely, how tremulously 
our hearts turn back to bathe in that running 
river of their love and ceaseless charm! 



[185] 



GREETING TO AMERICAN ANGLERS 

From Master Izaak Walton 

MY Good Friends — As I have said afore- 
time, sitting by a river's side is the quiet- 
est and fittest place for contemplation, and be- 
ing out and along the bank of Styx with my 
tackle this sweet April morning, it came into my 
humor to send a word of greeting to you Amer- 
ican anglers. Some of your fellows, who have 
come by this way these past years, tell me no- 
table tales of the sport that may be had in your 
bright streams, whereof the name of Pocono 
lingers in my memory. Sad it is to me to recall 
that when writing my little book on the recrea- 
tion of a contemplative man I had made no 
mention of your rivers as delightsome places 
where our noble art might be carried to a brave 
perfection, but indeed in that day when I wrote 
— more years ago than I like to think on — your 
far country was esteemed a wild and wanton 
land. Some worthy Pennsylvania anglers with 
whom I have fished this water of Styx have even 
told me of thirty and forty-inch trouts they have 
[186] 



Greeting to American Anglers 

brought to basket in that same Pocono stream, 
from the which fables I know that the manners 
of our ancient sport have altered not a whit. 
I myself could tell you of a notable catch I had 
the other morning, when I took some half dozen 
brace of trouts before breakfast, not one less 
than twenty-two inches, with bellies as yellow 
as marigold and as white as a lily in parts. 
That I account quite excellent taking for these 




times, when this stream hath been so roiled 
and troubled by the passage of Master Charon's 
barges, he having been so pressed with traffic 
that he hath discarded his ancient vessel as in- 
commodious and hasteneth to and fro with a fleet 
of ferryboats. 

My Good Friends, I wish you all the comely 
sport that may be found along those crystal 
rivers whereof your fellows have told me, and 
a good honest alehouse wherein to take your 
civil cup of barley wine when there ariseth too 
violent a shower of rain. I have ever believed 

[187] 



Mince Pie 

that a pipe of tobacco sweeteneth sport, and I 
was never above hiding a bottle of somewhat in 
the hollow root of a sycamore against chilly 
seizures. But come, what is this I hear that you 
honest anglers shall no longer pledge fortune in 
a cup of mild beverage? Meseemeth this is an 
odd thing and contrary to our tradition. I look 
for some explanation of the matter. Mayhap 
I have been misled by some waggishness. In 
my days along my beloved little river Dove, 
where my friend Mr. Cotton erected his fishing 
house, we were wont to take our pleasure on the 
bowling green of an evening, with a cup of ale 
handy. And our sheets used to smell passing 
sweet of lavender, which is a pleasant fra- 
grance, indeed. 

One matter lies somewhat heavy on my heart 
and damps my mirth, that in my little book 
I said of our noble fish the trout that his name 
was of a German offspring. I am happy to con- 
fess to you that I was at fault, for my good 
friend Master Charon (who doth sometimes 
lighten his labors with a little casting and 
trolling from the poop of his vessel) hath ex- 
plained to me that the name trout deriveth from 
the antique Latin word tructa, signifying a 
gnawer. This is a gladsome thing for me to 
know, and moreover I am bounden to tell you 
that the house committee of our little angling 
[188] 



Greeting to American Anglers 

club along Styx hath blackballed all German 
members henceforward. These riparian pleas- 
ures are justly to be reserved for gentles of the 
true sportsman blood, and not such as have de- 
filed the fair rivers of France. 

And so, good friends, my love and blessing 
upon all such as love quietness and go angling. 

Izaak Walton. 



[189] 



MRS. IZAAK WALTON WRITES A LET- 
TER TO HER MOTHER 

Chancery Lane, London, 

April 28, 1639. 

MY Dearest Mother: 
Matters indeed pass from badd to worse, 
and I fear mee that with Izaak spending all 
hys tyme angling along riversydes and neglect- 
ing the millinery shoppe (wych is our onlie 
supporte, for can bodye and soule be keppt in 
one by a few paltrie brace of trouts a weeke?) 
wee shall soone come to a sorrye ende. How 
many tymes, deare Mother, have I bewailed my 
follye in wedding this creature who seemeth to 
mee more a fysh than a man, not mearly by 
reason of hys madnesse for the gracelesse prac- 
tice of water-dabbling, but eke for hys pas- 
sion for swimming in barley wine, ale, malmsey 
and other infuriatyng liquours. What manner 
of companye doth this dotard keepe on his fysh- 
ing pastimes, God wot ! Lo he is wonte to come 
home at some grievous houre of ye nyghte, 
bearing but a smalle catche but plentyful aroma 
[190] 



Mrs. Izaak Walton Writes a Letter 

of drinke, and ofttimes alsoe hys rybalde 
freinds do accompany hym. Nothing will serve 
but they must arouse our kytchen-maide and 
have some paltry chubb or gudgeon fryed in 
greese, filling ye house wyth nauseous odoures, 
and wyth their ill prattle of fyshing tackle, not 
to say the comely milke-maides they have seen 
along some wanton meadowside, soe that I am 
moste distraught. You knowe, my deare, I 




never colde abyde fyssche being colde clammy 
cretures, and loe onlye last nyghte this Monster 
dyd come to my beddside where I laye asleep- 
yng and wake me fromm a sweet drowse by 
dangling a string of loathsome queasy trouts, 
still dryppinge, against my nose. Lo, says he, 
are these not beuties? And his reek of barley 
wine did fille the chamber. Worste of alle, 
deare Mother, this all-advised wretche doth 
spend alle his vacant houres in compiling a 
booke on the art (as he calleth it) of angling, 
surely a trifling petty wanton taske that will 

[191] 



Mince Pie 

make hym the laughing-stocke of all sober men. 
God forbidd that oure littel son sholde be 
brought uppe in this nastye squanderinge of 
tyme, wych doth breede nought (meseems) but 
ale-bibbing and ye disregarde of truth. Oure 
house, wych is but small as thou knowest, is all 
cluttered wyth his slimye tackle, and loe but 
yesterdaye I loste a customer fromm ye mil- 
linery shoppe, shee averring (and I trow ryght- 
ly) that ye shoppe dyd stinke of fysshe. Ande 
soe if thys thyng do continue longer I shall 
ripp uppe and leave, for I thoght to wed a man 
and not a paddler of dytches. O howe I longe 
for those happy dayes with thee, before I ever 
knew such a thyng as a fysshe existed! Sad 
too it is that he doth justifye his vain idle wan- 
ton pasttyme by misquoting scriptures. Saint 
Peter, and soe on. Three kytchen maides have 
lefte us latelye for barbyng themselves upon 
hydden hookes that doe scatter our shelves and 
drawers. 

Thy persecuted daughter, 

Anne Walton. 



[192J 



TRUTH 

OUR mind is dreadfully active sometimes, 
and the other day we began to speculate 
on Truth. 

Our friends are still avoiding us. 

Every man knows what Truth is, but it is 
impossible to utter it. The face of your lis- 
tener, his eyes mirthful or sorry, his eager 
expectance or his churlish disdain insensibly dis- 
tort your message. You find yourself saying 
what you know he expects you to say, or (more 
often) what he expects you not to say. You 
may not be aware of this, but that is what hap- 
pens. In order that the world may go on and 
human beings thrive, nature has contrived that 
the Truth may not often be uttered. 

And how is one to know what is Truth? He 
thinks one thing before lunch; after a stirring 
bout with corned beef and onions the shining- 
vision is strangely altered. Which is Truth? 

Truth can only be attained by those whose 
systems are untainted by secret influences, such 
as love, envy, ambition, food, college educations 
and moonlight in spring. 

[193] 



Mince Pie 

If a man lived in a desert for six months 
without food, drink or companionship he would 
be reasonably free from prejudice and would be 
in a condition to enunciate great truths. 

But even then his vision of reality would have 
been warped by so much sand and so many 
sunsets. 

Even if he survived and brought us his Truth 
with all the gravity and long night-gown of a 
Hindu faker, as soon as any one listened to 
him his message would no longer be Truth. The 
complexion of his audience, the very shape of 
their noses, would subtly undermine his mag- 
nificent aloofness. 

Women have learned the secret. Truth must 
never be uttered, and never be listened to. 

Truth is the ricochet of a prejudice bounc- 
ing off a fact. 

Truth is what every man sees lurking at the 
bottom of his own soul, like the oyster shell 
housewives put in the kitchen kettle to collect 
the lime from the water. By and by each 
man's iridescent oyster shell of Truth becomes 
coated with the lime of prejudice and hearsay. 

All the above is probably untrue. 



[194] 



THE TRAGEDY OF WASHINGTON 
SQUARE 

ONE of our favorite amusements at lunch- 
time is to walk down to Henry Rosa's pas- 
try shop, and buy a slab of cinnamon bun. 
Then we walk round Washington Square, mus- 
ing, and gradually walking round and engulf- 
ing the cinnamon bun at the same time. It is 
surprising what a large circumference those 
buns of Henry's have. By the time we have 
gnashed our way through one of those warm 
and mystic phenomena we don't want to eat 
again for a month. 

The real reason for the cinnamon bun is to 
fortify us for the contemplation and onslaught 
upon a tragic problem that Washington Square 
presents to our pondering soul. 

Washington Square is a delightful place. 
There are trees there, and publishing houses and 
warm green grass and a fire engine station. 
There are children playing about on the broad 
pavements that criss-cross the sward; there is a 
fine roof of blue sky, kept from falling down by 
the enormous building at the north side of the 

[195] 



Mince Pie 

Square. But these things present no problems. 
To our simple philosophy a tree is a vegetable, 
a child is an animal, a building is a mineral, 
and this classification needs no further scrutiny 
or analysis. But there is one thing in Wash- 
ington Square that embodies an intellectual 
problem, a grappling of the soul, a matter for 
continual anguish and decision. 

On the west side of the Square is the Swiss 
consulate, and, it is this that weighs upon our 
brooding spirit. How many times we have 
paused before that quiet little house and gazed 
upon the little red cross, a Maltese Cross, or a 
Cross of St. Hieronymus, or whatever the her- 
aldic term is, that represents and symbolizes 
the diplomatic and spiritual presence of the 
Swiss republic. We have stood there and 
thought about William Tell and the Berne Con- 
vention and the St. Gothard Tunnel and St. 
Bernard dogs and winter sports and alpen- 
stocks and edelweiss and the Jungfrau and all 
the other trappings and trappists that make 
Switzerland notable. We have mused upon the 
Swiss military system, which is so perfect that 
it has never had to be tested by war; and we 
have wondered what is the name of the Presi- 
dent of Switzerland and how he keeps it out 
of the papers so successfully. One day we 
lugged an encyclopedia and the Statesman's 
[196] 



The Tragedy of Washington Square 

Year Book out to the Square with us and sat 
down on a bench facing the consulate and read 
up about the Swiss cabinet and the national 
bank of Switzerland and her child labor prob- 
lems. Accidentally we discovered the name of 
the Swiss President, but as he has kept it so 
dark we are not going to give away his secret. 

Our dilemma is quite simple. Where there 
is a consulate there must be a consul, and it 
seems to us a dreadful thing that inside that 
building there lurks a Swiss envoy who does not 
know that we, here, we who are walking round 
the Square with our mouth full of Henry Rosa's 
bun, once spent a night in Switzerland. We 
want him to know that; we think he ought to 
know it; we think it is part of his diplomatic 
duty to know it. And yet how can we burst 
in on him and tell him that apparently irrelevant 
piece of information? 

We have thought of various ways of breaking 
it to him, or should we say breaking him to 
it? 

Should we rush in and say the Swiss national 

debt is $ , or kopecks, and then lead on 

to other topics such as the comparative heights 
of mountain peaks, letting the consul gradually 
grasp the fact that we have been in Switzer- 
land? Or should we call him up on the tele- 

[197] 



Mince Pie 

phone and make a mysterious appointment with 
him, when we could blurt it out brutally? 

We are a modest and diffident man, and this 
little problem, which would be so trifling to 
many, presents inscrutable hardships to us. 

Another aspect of the matter is this. We 
think the consul ought to know that we spent 
one night in Switzerland once; we think he 
ought to know what we were doing that night; 
but we also think he ought to know just why 
it was that we spent only one night in his 
beautiful country. We don't want him to think 
we hurried away because we were annoyed by 
anything, or because the national debt was so 
many rupees or piasters, or because child labor 

in Switzerland is . It is the thought that 

the consul and all his staff are in total ignorance 
of our existence that galls us. Here we are, 
walking round and round the Square, bursting 
with information and enthusiasm about Swiss 
republicanism, and the consul never heard of us. 
How can we summon up courage enough to tell 
him the truth? That is the tragedy of Wash- 
ington Square. 

It was a dark, rainy night when we bicycled 

into Basel. We had been riding all day long, 

coming down from the dark clefts of the Black 

Forest, and we and our knapsack were wet 

[198] 



The Tragedy of Washington Square 

through, We had been bicycling for six weeks 
with no more luggage than a rucksack could 
hold. We never saw such rain as fell that day 
we slithered and sloshed on the rugged slopes 
that tumble down to the Rhine at Basel. (The 

annual rainfall in Switzerland is .) When 

we got to the little hotel at Basel we sat in the 
dining room with water running off us in 
trickles, until the head waiter glared. And so 
all we saw of Switzerland was the interior of 
the tobacconist's, where we tried, unsuccessful- 
ly, to get some English baccy. Then he went to 
bed while our garments were dried. We stayed 
in bed for ten hours, reading fairy tales and 
smoking and answering modestly through the 
transom when any one asked us questions. 

The next morning we overhauled our ward- 
robe. We will not particularize, but we decided 
that one change of duds, after six weeks' bi- 
cycling, was not enough of a wardrobe to face 
the Jungfrau and the national debt and the 
child-labor problem, not to speak of the 
anonymous President and the other sights that 
matter (such as the Matterhorn). Also, our 
stock of tobacco had run out, and German or 
French tobacco we simply cannot smoke. Even 
if we could get along on substitute fumigants 
the issue of garments was imperative. The 
nearest place where we could get any clothes of 

[199] 



Mince Pie 

the kind that we are accustomed to, the kind 
of clothes that are familiarly symbolized by 
three well-known initials, was London. And the 
only way we had to get to London was on our 
bicycle. We thought we had better get busy. 
It's a long bike ride from Basel to London. So 
we just went as far as the Basel Cathedral, so 
as not to seem too unappreciative of all the 
treasures that Switzerland had been saving for 
us for countless centuries ; then we got on board 
our patient steed and trundled off through Al- 
sace. 

That was in August, 1912, and we firmly in- 
tended to go back to Switzerland the next year 
to have another look at the rainfall and the 
rest of the statistics and status quos. But the 
opportunity has not come. 

So that is why we wander disconsolately about 
Washington Square, trying to make up our mind 
to unburden our bosom to the Swiss consul and 
tell him the worst. But how can one go and 
interrupt a consul to tell him that sort of thing? 
Perhaps he wouldn't understand it at all; he 
would misunderstand our pathetic little story 
and be angry that we took up his time. He 
wouldn't think that a shortage of tobacco and 
clothing was a sufficient excuse for slighting 
William Tell and the Jungfrau. He wouldn't 
appreciate the frustrated emotion and longing 
[200] 



The Tragedy of Washington Square 

with which we watch the little red cross at his 
front door, and think of all it means to us and 
all it might have meant. 

We took another turn around Washington 
Square, trying to embolden ourself enough to go 
in and tell the consul all this. And then our 
heart failed us. We decided to write a piece for 
the paper about it, and if the consul ever sees it 
he will be generous and understand. He will 
know why, behind the humble f acade of his con- 
sulate on Washington Square, we see the heaven- 
piercing summits of Switzerland rising like a 
dream, blue and silvery and tantalizing. 

P. S. Since the above we have definitely de- 
cided not to go to call on the Swiss consul. 
Suppose he were only a vice-consul, a Philadel- 
phia Swiss, who had never been to Switzerland 
in his life! 



[201] 



IF MR. WILSON WERE THE WEATHER. 

MAN 

MY Fellow Citizens: It is very delightful 
to be here, if I may be permitted to say 
so, and I consider it a distinguished privilege to 
open the discussion as to the probable weather 
to-morrow not only, but during the days to come. 
I can easily conceive that many of our forecasts 
will need subsequent reconsideration, for if I 
may judge by my own study of these matters, 
the climate is not susceptible of confident judg- 
ments at present. 

An overwhelming majority of the American 
people is in favor of fine weather. This under- 
lying community of purpose warms my heart. 
If we do not guarantee them fine weather, can- 
not you see the picture of what would come to< 
pass ? Your hearts have instructed you where 
the rain falls. It falls upon senators and con- 
gressmen not only — and for that we need net 
feel so much chagrin — it falls upon humble 
homes everywhere, upon plain men, and women, 
and children. If I were to disappoint the 
united expectation of my fellow citizens for 
[202] 



If Mr. Wilson Were the Weather Man 

fine weather to-morrow I would incur their mer- 
ited scorn. 

I suppose no more delicate task is given any 
man than to interpret the feelings and purposes 
of a great climate. It is not a task in which any 
man can find much exhilaration, and I confess I 
have been puzzled by some of the criticisms 
leveled at my office. But they do not make any 
impression on me, because I know that the sen- 
timent of the country at large will be more gen- 
erous. I call my fellow countrymen to witness 
that at no stage of the recent period of low 
barometric pressure have I judged the purposes 
of the climate intemperately. I should be 
ashamed to use the weak language of vindictive 
protest. 

I have tried once and again, my fellow citi- 
zens, to say to you in all frankness what seems 
to be the prospect of fine weather. There is a 
compulsion upon one in my position to exercise 
every effort to see that as little as possible of 
the hope of mankind is disappointed. Yet this 
is a hope which cannot, in the very nature of 
things, be realized in its perfection. The ut- 
most that can be done by way of accommoda- 
tion and compromise has been performed with- 
out stint or limit. I am sure it will not be 
necessary to remind you that you cannot throw 
off the habits of the climate immediately, any 

[203] 



Mince Pie 

more than you can throw off the habits of the 
individual immediately. But however unprom- 
ising the immediate outlook may be, I am the 
more happy to offer my observations on the state 
of the weather for to-morrow because this is not 
a party issue. What a delightful thought that 
is ! Whatever the condition of sunshine or pre- 
cipitation vouchsafed to us, may I not hope that 
we shall all meet it with quickened temper and 
purpose, happy in the thought that it is our 
common fortune? 

For to-morrow there is every prospect of 
heavy and continuous rain. 



[204] 



SYNTAX FOR CYNICS 
A Grammar of the Feminine Language 

THE feminine language consists of words 
placed one after another with extreme 
rapidity, with intervals for matinees. The pur- 
pose of this language is (1) to conceal, and (2) 
to induce, thought. Very often, after the use 




of a deal of language, a thought will appear in 
the speaker's mind. This, while desirable, is 
by no means necessary. 

THOUGHT cannot be defined, but it is in- 
stinctively recognized even by those unaccus- 
tomed to it. 

[205] 



Mince Pie 

PARTS OF SPEECH: There are five parts 
of feminine speech — noun, pronoun, adjective, 
verb and interjection. 

THE NOUN is the name of something to 
wear, or somebody who furnishes something to 
wear, or a place where something is to be worn. 
E. g., hat, husband, opera. Feminine nouns are 
always singular. 

THE PRONOUN is I. 

ADJECTIVES: There are only four femi- 
nine adjectives — adorable, cute, sweet, horrid. 
These are all modified on occasion by the adverb 
perfectly. 

THE VERBS are of two kinds — active and 
passive. Active verbs express action; passive 
verbs express passion. All feminine verbs are 
irregular and imperative. 

INTERJECTIONS: There are two inter- 
jections — Heavens! and Gracious! The mascu- 
line language is much richer in interjections. 

DECLENSION: There are three ways of 
feminine declining, (1) to say No; (2) to say 
Yes and mean No; (3) to say nothing. 

CONJUGATION : This is what happens to 
a verb in the course of conversation or shop- 
ping. A verb begins the day quite innocently, 
as the verb go in the phrase to go to town. 
When it gets to the city this verb becomes 
look, as, for instance, to look at the shop win- 
[206] 



Syntax for Cynics 

dows. Thereafter its descent is rapid into the 
form purchase or charge. This conjugation is 
often assisted by the auxiliary expression a 
bargain. About the first of the following month 
the verb reappears in the masculine vocabulary 
in a parallel or perverted form, modified by an 
interjection. 

CONVERSATION in the feminine language 
consists of language rapidly vibrating or oscil- 
lating between two persons. The object of any 
conversation is always accusative, e. g., "Mrs. 
Edwards has no taste in hats." Most conver- 
sations consist of an indeterminate number of 
sentences, but sometimes it is difficult to tell 
where one sentence ends and the next begins. 
It is even possible for two sentences to overlap. 
When this occurs the conversation is known as 
a dialogue. A sentence may be of any length, 
and is concluded only by the physiological ne- 
cessity of taking breath. 

SENTENCES: A sentence may be defined 
as a group of words, uttered in sequence, but 
without logical connection, to express an opin- 
ion or an emotion. A number of sentences if 
emitted without interruption becomes a con- 
versation. A conversation prolonged over an 
hour or more becomes a gossip. A gossip, when 
shared by several persons, is known as a secret. 

[207] 



Mince Pie 

A secret is anything known by a large and 
constantly increasing number of persons. 

LETTERS: The feminine language, when 
committed to paper, with a stub pen and back- 
handed chirography, is known as a letter. A 
letter should, if possible, be written on rose or 
lemon colored paper of a rough and flannely 
texture, with scalloped edges and initials em- 
bossed in gilt. It should be written with great 
rapidity, containing not less than ten exclama- 
tion points per page and three underlined ad- 
jectives per paragraph. The verb may be re~ 
served until the postscript. 

Generally speaking, students of the feminine 
language are agreed that rules of grammar and 
syntax are subject to individual caprice and 
whim, and it is very difficult to lay down fixed 
canons. The extreme rapidity with which the 
language is used and the charm and personal 
magnetism of its users have disconcerted even 
the most careful and scientific observers. A 
glossary of technical terms and idioms in the 
feminine language would be a work of great 
value to the whole husband world, but it is 
doubtful if any such volume will ever be pub- 
lished. 



[208] 



THE TRUTH AT LAST 

An Extract from Martha Washington's 
Diary 



FEB. 22, 1772. A grate Company of Guests 
assembled at Mt Vernon to celebrate Gen 1 
Washington's Birthdaye. In the Morning the 
Gentlemenn went a Fox hunting, but their Sport 
was marred by the Pertinacity of some Motion 




Picture menn who persewd them to take Fillums 
and catchd the General falling off his Horse at 
a Ditch. In the Evening some of the Companye 
tooke Occasion to rally the General upon the old 
Fable of the Cherrye Tree, w ch hath ever beea 

[209] 



Mince Pie 

imputed an Evidence of hys exceeding Veracity, 
though to saye sooth I never did believe the 
legend my self. "Well," sayes the General with 
a Twinkle, "it wolde not be Politick to denye a 
Romance w c]l is soe profitable to my Reputa- 
tion, but to be Candid, Gentlemenn, I have no 
certain recollection of the Affaire. My Brother 
Lawrence was wont to say that the Tree or 
Shrubb in question was no Cherrye but a Bitter 
Persimmon; moreover he told me that I stoutly 
denyed any Attacke upon it; but being caught 
with the Goods (as Tully saith) I was soundly 
Flogged, and walked stiffly for three dayes." 

I was glad to heare the Truth in this matter 
as I have never seen any Corroboration of this 
surpassing Virtue in George's private Life. 
The evening broke up in some Disorder as Col 
Fairfax and others hadd Drunk too freely of 
the Cock's Taile as they dub the new and very 
biting Toddy introduced by the military. Wee 
hadd to call a chirurgeon to lett Blood for some 
of the Guests before they coulde be gott to 
Bedd, whither they were conveyed on stretchers. 



[210] 



FIXED IDEAS 

IT is said that a Fixed Idea is the beginning 
of madness. 
Yet we are often worried because we have 
so few Fixed Ideas. We do not seem to have 
any really definite Theory about Life. 



We find, on the other hand, that a great many 
of those we know have some Guiding Principle 
that excuses and explains all their conduct. 



If you have some Theory about Life, and are 
thoroughly devoted to it, you may come to a 
bad end, but you will enjoy yourself heartily. 



These theories may be of many different 
kinds. One of our friend rests his career and 
hope of salvation on the doctrine that eating 
plenty of fish and going without an overcoat 
whenever possible constitute supreme happi- 



Another prides himself on not being able to 
roll a cigarette. If he were forced, at the point 

[211] 



Mince Pie 

of the bayonet, to roll a fag, it would wreck his 
life. 



Another is convinced that the Lost and Found 
ads in the papers all contain anarchist code 
messages, and sits up late at night trying to 
unriddle them. 



How delightful it must be to be possessed by 
one of these Theories ! All the experiences of 
the theorist's life tend to confirm his Theory. 
This is always so. Did you ever hear of a 
Theory being confuted? 



Facts are quite helpless in the face of 
Theories. For after all, most Facts are insuf- 
ficiently encouraged with applause. When a 
Fact comes along, the people in charge are gen- 
erally looking the other way. This is what is 
meant by Not Facing the Facts. 



Therefore all argument is quite useless, for it 
only results in stiifening your friend's belief in 
his (presumably wrong) Theory. 



When any one tries to argue with you, say, 
"You are nothing if not accurate, and you are 
not accurate." Then escape from the room. 

[212] 



Fixed Ideas 

When we hear our friends diligently expound- 
ing the ideas which Explain Everything, we are 
wistful. We go off and say to ourself, We 
really must dig up some kind of Theory about 
Life. 



We read once of a great man that he never 
said, "Well, possibly so." This gave us an un- 
easy pang. 



It is a mistake to be Open to Conviction en 
so many topics, because all one's friends try to 
convince one. This is very painful. 



And it is embarrassing if, for the sake of a 
quiet life, one pretends to be convinced. At 
the corner of Tenth and Chestnut we allowed 
ourself to agree with A. B., who said that the 
German colonies should be internationalized. 
Then we had to turn down Ninth Street because 
we saw C. D. coming, with whom we had pre- 
viously agreed that Great Britain should have 
German Africa. And in a moment we had to 
dodge into Sansom Street to avoid E. F., having 
already assented to his proposition that the 
German colonies should have self-determination. 
This kind of thing makes it impossible to see 
one's friends more than one at a time. 

[213] 



Mince Pie 

Perhaps our Fixed Idea is that we have no 
Fixed Ideas. 

Well, possibly so. 



[214] 



TRIALS OF A PRESIDENT TRAVELING 
ABROAD 

"I f\A- M. — Arrive at railway station. Wel- 

■*" "corned by King and Queen. Hat on 
head. Umbrella left hand. Gloves on. 

10:01 — Right glove off (hastily) into left hand. 
Hat off (right hand). Umbrella hanging on 
left arm. 

10:02 — Right glove into left pocket. Hat to 
left hand. Shake hands with King. 

10:03 — Shake hands with Queen. Left glove 
off to receive flowers. Umbrella to right 
hand. 

10:04 — Shake hands with Prime Minister. Left 
glove in left hand. Umbrella back to left 
hand. Flowers in left hand. Hat in left 
hand. 

10:05 — Enter King's carriage. Try to drop 
flowers under carriage unobserved. Foreign 
Minister picks them up with gallant re- 
mark. . 

10:06 — Shake hands with Foreign Minister. In 
his emotional foreign manner he insists on 
taking both hands. Quick work: Umbrella 

[215] 



Mince Pie 

to right elbow, gloves left pocket, hat under 
right arm, flowers to right pocket. 

10:08 — Received by Lord Mayor, who offers 
freedom of the city in golden casket. Casket 
in left hand, Lord Mayor in right hand, 
Queen on left arm, umbrella on right arm, 
flowers and gloves bursting from pockets, 
hat (momentarily) on head. 

10:10 — Delegation of statesmen. Statesmen in 
right hand. Hat, umbrella, gloves, King, 
flowers, casket in left hand. Situation get- 
ting complicated. 

10:15 — Ceremonial reception by Queen Mother. 
Getting confused. Queen Mother in left 
pocket, umbrella on head, gloves on right 
hand, hat in left hand, King on head, flowers 
in trousers pocket. Casket under left arm. 

10:17 — Complete collapse. Failure of the 
League of Nations. 



[216] 



DIARY OF A PUBLISHER'S OFFICE 
BOY 

JAN. 7, 1600. Thys daye ye Bosse bade mee 
remaine in ye Outer Office to keepe Callers 
from Hinderyng Hym in Hys affaires. There 
came an olde Bumme (ye same web. hath beene 
heare before) wth ye Scrypte of a Playe, 
dubbed Roumio ande Julia. Hys name was 
Shake a Speare or somethynge lyke thatt. Ye 
Bosse bade mee reade ye maunuscripp myselfe, 
as hee was Bussy. I dyd. Ande of alle foul- 
ishnesse, thys playe dyd beare away ye prize. 
Conceive ye Absuerditye of laying ye Sceane 
in Italy, it ys welle knowne that Awdiences will 
not abear nothyng that is not sett neare at 
Home. Butt woarse stille, thys fellowe pre- 
sumes to kille offe Boath Heroe ande Heroine 
in ye Laste Acte, wch is Intolerabble toe ye Pub- 
licke. Suerley noe chaunce of Success in thys. 
Ye awthour dyd reappeare in ye aufternoone, 
and dyd seeke to borrowe a crowne from mee, 
but I sente hym packing. Ye Bosse hath hearti- 
lye given me Styx forr admitting such Vaga- 
bones to ye Office. I tolde maister Shake a 

[217] 



Mince Pie 

Speare that unlesse hee colde learne to wryte 
Beste Sellers such as Master Spenser's Faerye 
Quene (wch wee have put through six editions) 
there was suerly noe Hope for hym. Hee tooke 
thys advyse in goode parte, and wente. Hys 
jerkin wolde have beene ye better for a 
patchinge. 



[218] 



THE DOG'S COMMANDMENTS 




FROM a witless puppy I brough thee up: 
gave thee fire and food, and taught thee the 
self-respect of an honest dog. Hear, then, my 
commandments : 

I am thy master: thou shalt have no other 
masters before me. Where I go, shalt thou 
follow; where I abide, tarry thou also. 

My house is thy castle; thou shalt honor it; 
guard it with thy life if need be. 

By daylight, suffer all that approach peace- 
ably to enter without protest. But after night- 
fall thou shalt give tongue when men draw 
near. 

Use not thy teeth on any man without good 

[219] 



Mince Pie 

cause and intolerable provocation; and never on 
women or children. 

Honor thy master and thy mistress, that thy 
days may be long in the land. 

Thou shalt not consort with mongrels, nor 
with dogs that are common or unclean. 

Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not feed 
upon refuse or stray bits: thy meat waits thee 
regularly in the kitchen. 

Thou shalt not bury bones in the flower 
beds. 

Cats are to be chased, but in sport only; seek 
not to devour them: their teeth and claws are 
deadly. 

Thou shalt not snap at my neighbor, nor at 
his wife, nor his child, nor his manservant, nor 
his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor do 
harm to aught that is his. 

The drawing-room rug is not for thee, nor 
the sofa, nor the best armchair. Thou hast 
the porch and thy own kennel. But for the 
love I bear thee, there is always a corner for 
thee by the winter fire. 

Meditate on these commandments day and 
night; so shalt thou be a dog of good breeding 
and an honor to thy master. 



[220] 



THE VALUE OF CRITICISM 

OUR friend Dove Dulcet, the well-known 
sub-caliber poet, has recently issued a 
slender volume of verses called Peanut Butter. 
He thinks we may be interested to see the com- 
ment of the press on his book. We don't know 
why he should think so, but anyway here are 
some of the reviews: 

Buffalo Lens: Mr. Dulcet is a sweet singer, 
and we could only wish there were twice as 
many of these delicately rhymed fancies. There 
is not a poem in the book that does not exhibit 
a tender grasp of the beautiful homely emotions. 
Perhaps the least successful, however, is that 
entitled "On Losing a Latchkey." 

Syracuse Hammer and Tongs: This little 
book of savage satires will rather dismay the 
simple-minded reader. Into the acid vials of 
his song Mr. Dulcet has poured a bitter cynic- 
ism. He seems to us to be an irremediable pes- 
simist, a man of brutal and embittered life. In 
one poem, however, he does soar to a very fine 
imaginative height. This is the ode "On Los- 

[221] 



Mince Pie 

ing a Latchkey," which is worth all the rest of 
the pieces put together. 

New York Reaping Hook: It is odd that 
Mr. Dove Dulcet, of Philadelphia we believe, 
should have been able to find a publisher for 
this volume. These queer little doggerels have 
an instinctive affinity for oblivion, and they will 
soon coalesce with the driftwood of the literary 
Sargasso Sea. Among many bad things we can 
hardly remember ever to have seen anything 
worse than "On Losing a Latchkey." 

Philadelphia Prism: Our gifted fellow 
townsman, Mr. Dove Dulcet, has once more 
demonstrated his ability to set humble themes in 
entrancing measures. He calls his book Peanut 
Butter. A title chosen with rare discernment, 
for the little volume has all the savor and nour- 
ishing properties of that palatable delicacy. We 
wish there were space to quote "On Losing a 
Latchkey," for it expresses a common human 
experience in language of haunting melody and 
witty brevity. How rare it is to find s, poet 
with such metrical skill who is content to handle 
the minor themes of life in this mood of deli- 
cious pleasantry. The only failure in the book 
is the banal sonnet entitled "On Raiding the 
Ice Box." This we would be content to forego. 

Pittsburgh Cylinder: It is a relief to meet 
one poet who deals with really exalted themes. 
[222] 



The Value of Criticism 

We are profoundly weary of the myriad versi- 
fiers who strum the so-called lowly and domestic 
themes. Mr. Dulcet, however, in his superb free 
verse, has scaled olympian heights, disdaining 
the customary twaddling topics of the rhyme- 
sters. Such an amazing allegory as "On Raiding 
the Ice Box," which deals, of course, with the 
experience of a man who attempts to explore 
the mind of an elderly Boston spinster, marks 
this powerful poet as a man of unusual satirical 
and philosophical depth. 

Boston Penseroso: We find Mr. Dove Dul- 
cet's new book rather baffling. We take his 
poem "On Raiding the Ice Box" to be a paean 
in honor of the discovery of the North Pole; 
but such a poem as "On Losing a Latchkey," 
is quite inscrutable. Our guess is that it is an 
intricate psycho-analysis of a pathological case 
of amnesia. Our own taste is more for the verse 
that deals with the gentler emotions of every 
day, but there can be no doubt that Mr. Dulcet 
is an artist to be reckoned with. 



[223] 



A MARRIAGE SERVICE FOR COM- 
MUTERS 

(Fill in railroad as required) 

WILT thou, Jack, have this woman to be 
thy wedded wife, to live together in so 

far as the Railroad will allow? Wilt thou 

love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, take 




her to the movies, prevent the furnace from go- 
ing out, and come home regularly on the 5:42 
train?" 

"I will." 

"Wilt thou, Jill, have this commuter to thy 
wedded husband, bearing in mind snowdrifts, 
[224] 



A Marriage Service for Commuters 

washouts, lack of servants and all other pen- 
alties of suburban life? Wilt thou obey him 
and serve him, love, honor and keep him, and 
let him smoke a corncob pipe in the house?" 

"I will." 

"I, Jack, take thee, Jill, to my wedded wife, 
from 6 P. M. until 8 A. M., as far as per- 
mitted by the Railroad, schedule subject 

to change without notice, for better, for worse, 
for later, for earlier, to love and to cherish, and 
I promise to telephone you when I miss the 
train." 

"I, Jill, take thee, Jack, to my wedded hus- 
band, subject to the mutability of the suburban 

service, changing trains at , to have and 

to hold, save when the card club meets on 
Wednesday evenings, and thereto I give thee 
my troth." 



[225] 



THE SUNNY SIDE OF GRUB STREET 




I OFTEN wonder how many present-day 
writers keep diaries. I wish The Bookman 
would conduct a questionnaire on the subject. I 
have a suspicion that Charley Towne keeps one 
— probably a grim, tragic parchment wherein 
that waggish soul sets down its secret musings. 
I dare say Louis Untermeyer has one (morocco, 
tooled and goffered, with gilt edges), and looks 
over its nipping paragraphs now and then with 
a certain relish. It undoubtedly has a large 
portmanteau pocket with it, to contain clippings 
of Mr. Untermeyer's letters to the papers taking 
issue with the reviews of his books. There is 
no way for the reviewer to escape that back- 
fire. I knew one critic who was determined to 
[226] 



The Sunny Side of Grub Street 

review one of Louis's books in such a way that 
the author would have no excuse for writing 
to the Times about it. He was overwhelmingly- 
complimentary. But along came the usual letter 
by return of post. Mr. Untermeyer asked for 
enough space to "diverge from the critique at 
one point." He said the review was too ful- 
some. 

I wish Don Marquis kept a diary, but I am 
quite sure he doesn't. Don is too — well, I was 
going to say he is too — but after all he has a 
perfect right to be that way. 

It's rather an important thing. Every one 
knows the fascination exerted by personal de- 
tails of authors' lives. Every one has hustled to 
the Cafe de la Source in Paris because R. L. S. 
once frequented it, or to Allaire's in New York 
because O. Henry wrote it up in one of his 
tales, and that sort of thing. People like to 
know all the minutiae concerning their favorite 
author. It is not sufficient to know (let us say) 
that Murray Hill or some one of that sort, once 
belonged to the Porrier's Corner Club. One 
wants to know where the Porrier's Corner Club 
was, and who were the members, and how he 
got there, and what he got there, and so forth. 
One wants to know where Murray Hill (I take 
his name only as a symbol) buys his cigars, and 
where he eats lunch, and what he eats, whether 

[227] 



Mince Pie 

pigeon potpie with iced tea or hamburg steak 
■and "coffee with plenty." It is all these inti- 
mate details that the public has thirst for. 

Now the point I want to make is this. Here, 
all around us, is fine doings (as Murray Hill 
would put it), the j oiliest literary hullabaloo 
going. Some of the writers round about — Ar- 
thur Guiterman or Tom Masson or Witter Byn- 
ner or Tom Daly, or some of these chaps now 
sitting down to combination-plate luncheons 
and getting off all manner of merry quips and 
confidential matters — some of these chaps may 
be famous some day (posterity is so undiscrim- 
inating) and all that savory personal stuff will 
have evaporated from our memories. The world 
of bookmen is in great need of a new crop of 
intimists, or whatever you call them. Barbel- 
lion chaps. Henry Ryecrofts. We need a chiel 
taking notes somewhere. 

Now if you really jot down the merry gossip, 
and make bright little pen portraits, and tell 
just what happens, it will not only afford you a 
deal of discreet amusement, but the diary you 
keep will reciprocate. In your older years it 
will keep you. Harper's Magazine will un- 
doubtedly want to publish it, forty years from 
now. If that is too late to keep you, it will 
help to keep your descendants. So I wish some 
of the authors would confess and let us know 
[228] 



The Sunny Side of Grub Street 

which of them are doing it. I would be jolly 
to know to whom we might confide the genial lit- 
tle items of what-not and don't-let-this-go-far- 
ther that come the rounds. The inside story of 
the literature of any epoch is best told in the 
diaries. I'll bet Brander Matthews kept one,, 
and James Huneker. It's a pity Professor 
Matthews's was a bit tedious. Crabb Robinson 
was the man for my money. 

The diarists I would choose for the present 
generation on Grub Street would be Heywood 
Broun, Franklin Adams, Bob Holliday, William 
McFee, and maybe Ben De Casseres (if he 
would promise not to mention Don Marquis and 
Walt Whitman more than once per page). Mc- 
Fee might be let off the job by reason of his 
ambrosial letters. But it just occurs to me 
that of course one must not know who is keep- 
ing the diary. If it were known, he would be 
deluged with letters from people wanting to 
get their names into it. And the really worth- 
while folks would be on their guard. 

But if all the writers wait until they are 
eighty years old and can write their memoirs 
with the beautifully gnarled and chalky old 
hands Joyce Kilmer loved to contemplate, they 
Will have forgotten the comical pith of a lot of 
it. If you want to reproduce the colors and col- 
lisions along the sunny side of Grub Street, 

[229] 



Mince Pie 

you've got to jot down your data before they 
fade. I wish I had time to be diarist of such 
matters. How candid I'd be ! I'd put down 
all about the two young novelists who used to 
meet every day in City Hall Park to compare 
notes while they were hunting for jobs, and 
make wagers as to whose pair of trousers would 
last longer. (Quite a desirable essay could be 
written, by the way, on the influence of trous- 
ers on the fortunes of Grub Street, with the 
three stages of the Grub Street trouser, viz.: 
1, baggy; 2, shiny; 3, trousers that must not be 
stooped in on any account.) There is an up- 
roarious tale about a pair of trousers and a very 
well-known writer and a lecture at Vassar Col- 
lege, but these things have to be reserved for 
posterity, the legatee of all really amusing mat- 
ters. 

But then there are other topics, too, such as 
the question whether Ibanez always wears a polo 
shirt, as the photos lead one to believe. The 
secret Philip Gibbs told me about the kind of 
typewriter he used on the western front. I 
would be enormously candid (if I were a diar- 
ist). I'd put down that I never can remember 
whether Vida Scudder is a man or a woman. 
I'd tell what A. Edward Newton said when he 
came rushing into the office to show me the 
Severn death-bed portrait of Keats, which he 
[230] 



The Sunny Side of Grub Street 

had just bought from Rosenbach. I'd tell the 
story of the unpublished letter of R. L. S. 
which a young man sold to buy a wedding 
present, which has since vanished (the R. L. S. 
letter). I'd tell the amazing story of how a 
piece of Walt Whitman manuscript was lost in 
Philadelphia on the memorable night of June 
30, 19W- I'd tell just how Vachel Lindsay be- 
haves when he's off duty. I'd even forsake 
everything to travel over to England with 
Vachel on his forthcoming lecture tour, as I'm 
convinced that England's comments on Vachel 
will be worth listening to. 

The ideal man to keep the sort of diary I have 
in mind would be Hilaire Belloc. It was an an- 
cestor of Mr. Belloc, Dr. Joseph Priestley (who 
died in Pennsylvania, by the way) who discov- 
ered oxygen; and it is Mr. Belloc himself who 
has discovered how to put oxygen into the mod- 
ern English essay. The gift, together with his 
love of good eating, probably came to him from 
his mother, Bessie Rayner Parkes, who once 
partook of Samuel Rogers's famous literary 
breakfasts. And this brings us back to our old 
friend Crabb Robinson, another of the Rogers 
breakfast clan. Robinson is never wildly excit- 
ing, but he gives a perfect panorama of his day. 
It is not often that one finds a man who asso- 
ciated with such figures as Goethe, Wordsworth, 

[231] 



Mince Pie 

Coleridge, Blake, and Lamb. He had the true 
gift for diarizing. What could be better, for 
instance, than this little miniature picture of the 
rise and fall of teetotalism in one well-loved 
person ? — 

Mary Lamb, I am glad to say, is just now very 
comfortable. She has put herself under Doctor Tut- 
hill, who has prescribed water. Charles, in conse- 
quence, resolved to accommodate himself to her, and 
since Lord-Mayor's day has abstained from all other 
liquor, as well as from smoking. We shall all re- 
joice if this experiment succeeds. . . . His change of 
habit, though it, on the whole, improves his health, 
yet when he is low-spirited, leaves him without a 
remedy or relief. 

— Letter of Henry Crabb Robinson to Miss Words- 
worth, December 23, 1810. 

Spent part of the evening with Charles Lamb (un- 
well) and his sister. 

— Robinson's Diary, January 8, 1811. 

Late in the evening Lamb called, to sit with me 
while he smoked his pipe. 

— Robinson's Diary, December 20, 1814. 

Lamb was in a happy frame, and I can still recall 
to my mind the look and tone with which he ad- 
dressed Moore, when he could not articulate very 
distinctly: "Mister Moore, will you drink a glass 
of wine with me?" — suiting the action to the word, 
and hobnobbing. 

— Robinson's Diary, April 4, 1823. 

[232] 



The Sunny Side of Grub Street 

Now that, I maintain, is just the kind of 
stuff we need in a diary of today. How fas- 
cinating that old book Peyrat's "Pastors of the 
Desert" became when we learned that R. L. S. 
had a copy of the second volume of it in his 
sleeping sack when he camped out with Modes- 
tine. Even so it may be a matter of delicious in- 
terest to our grandsons to know what book Joe 
Hergesheimer was reading when he came in 
town on the local from West Chester recently, 
and who taught him to shoot craps. It is in- 
teresting to know what Will and Stephen Benet 
(those skiey fraternals) eat when they visit a 
Hartford Lunch ; to know whether Gilbert Ches- 
terton is really fond of dogs (as "The Flying 
Inn" implies, if you remember Quoodle), and 
whether Edwin Meade Robinson and Edwin 
Arlington Robinson, arcades ambo, ever write to 
each other. It would be interesting — indeed it 
would be highly entertaining — to compile a list 
of the free meals Vachel Lindsay has received, 
and to ascertain the number of times Harry 
Kemp has been "discovered." It would be in- 
teresting to know how many people shudder 
with faint nausea (as I do) when they pick up 
a Dowson playlet and find it beginning with a 
list of characters including "A Moon Maiden" 
and "Pierrot," scene set in "a glade in the Pare 
du Petit Trianon — a statue of Cupid — Pierrot 

[233] 



Mince Pie 

enters with his hands full of lilies." It would 
be interesting to resume the number of brazen 
imitations of McCrae's "In Flanders Felds" — 
here is the most striking, put out on a highly 
illuminated card by a New York publishing 
firm: 

Rest in peace, ye Flanders's dead, 
The poppies still blow overhead, 

The larks ye heard, still singing fly. 

They sing of the cause which made thee die. 

And they are heard far down below, 

Our fight is ended with the foe. 

The fight for right, which ye begun 
And which ye died for, we have won. 
Rest in peace. 

The man who wrote that ought to be the first 
man mobilized for the next war. 

All such matters, with a plentiful bastinado 
for stupidity and swank, are the privilege of the 
diarist. He may indulge himself in the de- 
lightful luxury of making post-mortem enemies. 
He may wonder what the average reviewer 
thinks he means by always referring to single 
publishers in the plural. A note which we 
often see in the papers runs like this: "Soon to 
be issued by the Dorans (or Knopfs or 
Huebsches)/' etc., etc. This is an echo of the 
old custom when there really were two or more 
[234] 



The Sunny Side of Grub Street 

Harpers. But as long as there is only one 
Doran, one Huebsch, one Knopf, it is simply 
idiotic. 

Well, as we go sauntering along the sunny 
side of Grub Street, meditating an essay on 
the Mustache in Literature (we have shaved off 
our own since that man Murray Hill referred to 
it in the public prints as "a young hay-wagon"), 
we are wondering whether any of the writing 
men are keeping the kind of diary we should 
like our son to read, say in 1950. Perhaps Miss 
Daisy Ashford is keeping one. She has the 
seeing eye. Alas that Miss Daisy at nine years 
old was a puella unius libri. 



[235] 



BURIAL SERVICE FOR A NEWSPAPER 
JOKE 

yfFTER the remains have been decently in- 
^J. terred, the following remarks shall be ut- 
tered by the presiding humorist: 

This joke has been our refuge from one gen- 
eration to another: 

Before the mountains were brought forth this 
joke was lusty and of good repute: 

In the life of this joke a thousand years are 
but as yesterday. 

Blessed^ therefore, is this joke, which now 
resteth from its labors. 

But most of our jokes are of little continu- 
ance: though there be some so strong that they 
come to fourscore years, yet is their humor then 
but labor and sorrow: 

For a joke that is born of a humorist hath 
but a short time to live and is full of misery. 
It cometh up and is cut down like a flower. It 
fleeth as if it were a shadow and abideth but one 
edition. 

It is sown in quotation, it is raised in mis- 
quotation : 
[236] 



Burial Service for a Newspaper Joke 

We therefore commit this joke to the files of 
the country newspapers, where it shall circu- 
late forever, world without end. 



[237] 



ADVICE TO THOSE VISITING A BABY 

INTERVIEW the baby alone if possible. 
If, however, both parents are present, say, 
"It looks like its mother." And, as an after- 
thought, "I think it has its father's elbows." 

If uncertain as to the infant's sex, try some 
such formula as, "He looks like her grand- 
parents," or "She has his aunt's sweet disposi- 
tion." 

When the mother only is present, your situa- 
tion is critical. Sigh deeply and admiringly, to 
imply that you wish you had a child like that. 
Don't commit yourself at all until she gives a 
lead. 

When the father only is present, you may be 
a little reckless. Give the father a cigar and 
venture, "Good luck, old man ; it looks like your 
mother-in-law." 

If possible, find out beforehand how old the 
child is. Call up the Bureau of Vital Statis- 
tics. If it is two months old, say to the mother, 
"Rather large for six months, isn't he?" 

If the worst has happened and the child 
[238] 



Advice to those Visiting a Baby 

really does look like its father, the most tactful 
thing is to say, "Children change as they grow 
older." Or you may suggest that some mis- 
take has been made at the hospital and they 
have brought home the wrong baby. 

If left alone in the room with the baby, throw 
a sound-proof rug over it and escape. 



[239] 



ABOU BEN WOODROW 

(in paris) 




ABOU BEN WOODROW (may his tribe 
increase !) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, among the gifts piled on the floor 
(Making the room look like a department 

store), 
An Angel writing in a book of gold. 
Now much applause had made Ben Woodrow 

bold 
And to the Presence in the room said he, 
"Qu'est-ce que c'est que ga que tu ecrisV* 
[240] 



Abou Ben Woodrow 

Or, in plain English, "May I not inquire 
What writest thou?" The Angel did not tire 
But kept on scribing. Then it turned its head 
(All Europe could not turn Ben Woodrow's 

head!) 
And with a voice almost as sweet as Creel's 
Answered: "The names of those who grease 

the wheels 
Of progress and have never, never blundered." 
Ben Woodrow lay quite still, and sadly won- 
dered. 
"And is mine one?" he queried. "Nay, not so," 
Replied the Angel. Woodrow spoke more low 
But cheerly still, and in his May I notting 
Fashion he said: "Of course you may be rot- 
ting, 
But even if you are, may I not then 
Be writ as one that loves his fellow men? 
Do that for me, old chap; just that; that merely 
And I am yours, cordially and sincerely." 
The Angel wrote, and vanished like a mouse. 
Next night returned (accompanied by House) 
And showed the names whom love of Peace had 

blest. 
And lo! Ben Woodrow's name led all the restB 



[241] 



MY MAGNIFICENT SYSTEM 

IN these days when the streets are so perilous, 
every man who goes about the city ought to 
be sure that his pockets are in good order, so 
that when he is run down by a roaring motor- 
truck the police will have no trouble in identi- 
fying him and communicating with his cred- 
itors. 

I have always been very proud of my pocket 
system. As others may wish to install it, I will 
describe it briefly. If I am found prostrate 
and lifeless on the paving, I can quickly be 
identified by the following arrangement of my 
private affairs: 

In my right-hand trouser leg is a large hole, 
partially surrounded by pocket. 

In my left-hand trouser pocket is a compli- 
cated bunch of keys. I am not quite sure what 
they all belong to, as I rarely lock anything. 
They are very useful, however, as when I walk 
rapidly they evolve a shrill jingling which often 
conveys the impression of minted coinage. One 
of them, I think, unlocks the coffer where I se- 
[242] 



My Magnificent System 

cretly preserve the pair of spats I bought when 
I became engaged. 

My right-hand hip pocket is used, in summer, 
for the handkerchief reserves (hayfever suf- 
ferers, please notice) ; and, in winter, for 
stamps. It is tapestried with a sheet of three- 
cent engravings that got in there by mistake 
last July, and adhered. 

My left-hand hip pocket holds my memor- 
andum book, which contains only one entry: 
Remember not to forget anything. 

The left-hand upper waistcoat pocket holds a 
pencil, a commutation ticket and a pipe cleaner. 

The left-hand lower waistcoat pocket contains 
what the ignorant will esteem scraps of paper. 
This, however, is the hub and nerve center of 
my mnemonic system. When I want to remem- 
ber anything I write it down on a small slip of 
paper and stick it in that pocket. Before going 
to bed I clean out the pocket and see how many 
things I have forgotten during the day. This 
promotes tranquil rest. 

The right-hand upper waistcoat pocket is 
used for wall-paper samples. Here I keep 
clippings of all the wallpapers at home, so that 
when buying shirts, ties, socks or books I can 
be sure to get something that will harmonize. 
My taste in these matters has sometimes been 
aspersed, so I am playing safe. 

[243] 



Mince Pie 

The right-hand lower waistcoat pocket is used 
for small change. This is a one-way pocket; 
exit only. 

The inner pocket of my coat is used for rail- 
road timetables, most of which have since been 
changed. Also a selected assortment of unan- 
swered letters and slips of paper saying, "Call 
Mr. So-and-so before noon." The first thing 
to be done by my heirs after collecting the re- 
mains must be to communicate with the writers 
of those letters, to assure them that I was struck 
down in the fullness of my powers while on the 
way to the post office to mail an answer. 

My right-hand coat pocket is for pipes. 

Left-hand coat pocket for tobacco and 
matches. 

The little tin cup strapped in my left armpit 
is for Swedish matches that failed to ignite. 
It is an invention of my own. 

I once intended to allocate a pocket especially 
for greenbacks, but found it unnecessary. 



[244] 



LETTERS TO CYNTHIA 

I. In Praise of Boobs 

Dear Sir — What is a Boob? Will you please 
discuss the subject a little? Perhaps I'm a boob 
for asking — but I'd like to know. 

Cynthia. 




BE FRIENDLY WITH BOOBS 

The Boob, my dear Cynthia, is Nature's de- 
vice for mitigating the quaintly blended in- 
felicities of existence. Never be too bitter 
about the Boob. The Boob is you and me and 
the man in the elevator. 

[245] 



Mince Pie 

THE BOOB IS HUMANITY'S HOPE 

As long as the Boob ratio remains high, hu- 
manity is safe. The Boob is the last reposi- 
tory of the stalwart virtues. The Boob is faith, 
hope and charity. The Boob is the hope of con- 
servatives, the terror of radicals and the meal 
check of cynics. If you are run over on Market 
Street and left groaning under the mailed fist 
of a flivver, the Bolsheviki and I. W. W. will be 
watching the shop windows. It will be the 
Boob who will come to your aid, even before the 
cop gets there. 

1653 BOOBS 

If you were to dig a deep and terrible pit in 
the middle of Chestnut Street, and illuminate 
it with signs and red lights and placards read- 
ing, DO NOT WALK INTO THIS PIT, 1653 
Boobs would tumble into it during the course of 
the day. Boobs have faith. They are eager to 
plunge in where an angel wouldn't even show his 
periscope. 

THE BOOB RATIO 

But that does not prove anything creditable to 

human nature. For though 1653 people would 

fall into our pit (which any Rapid Transit 

Company will dig for us free of charge) 26,448 

[246] 



Letters to Cynthia 

would cautiously and suspiciously and con- 
temptuously avoid it. The Boob ratio is just 
about 1 to 16. 

HE LOOKS FOR ANGELS 

It does not pay to make fun of the Boob. 
There is no malice in him, no insolence, no pas- 
sion to thrive at the expense of his fellows. If 
he sees some one on a street corner gazing open- 
mouthed at the sky, he will do likewise, and 
stand there for half hour with his apple of 
Adam expectantly vibrating. But is that a 
shameful trait? May not a Boob expect to see 
angels in the shimmering blue of heaven? Is 
he more disreputable than the knave who frisks 
his watch meanwhile? And suppose he does 
see an angel, or even only a blue acre of sky — 
is that not worth as much as the dial in his 
poke ? 

HE SEES THEM 

It is the Boob who is always willing to look 
hopefully for angels who will see them ulti- 
mately. And the man who is only looking for 
the Boob's timepiece will do time of his own by 
and by. 

HE BEARS NO MALICE 

The Boob is convinced that the world is con- 
ducted on genteel and friendly principles. He 

[247] 



Mince Pie 

feels in his heart that even the law of gravity 
will do him no harm. That is why he steps 
unabashed into our pit on Chestnut Street; and 
finding himself sprawling in the bottom of it, 
he bears no ill will to Sir Isaac Newton. He 
simply knows that the law of gravity took him 
for some one else — a street-cleaning contractor, 
perhaps. 

A DEFINITION 

A small boy once defined a Boob as one who 
always treats other people better than he does 
himself. 

HE IS UNSUSPICIOUS 

The Boob is hopeful, cheery, more concerned 
over other people's troubles than his own. He 
goes serenely unsuspicious of the brick under 
the silk hat, even when the silk hat is on the 
head of a Mayor or City Councilman. He will 
pull every trigger he meets, regardless that the 
whole world is loaded and aimed at him. He 
will keep on running for the 5 :42 train, even 
though the timetable was changed the day be- 
fore yesterday. He goes through the revolving 
doors the wrong way. He forgets that the 
banks close at noon on Saturdays. He asks for 
oysters on the first of June. He will wait for 
hours at the Chestnut Street door, even though 
[248] 



Letters to Cynthia 

his wife told him to meet her at the ribbon 
counter. 

HIS WIFE 

Yes, he has a wife. But if he was not a 
Boob before marriage he will never become so 
after. Women are the natural antidotes of 
Boobs. 

RECEPTIVE 

The Boob is not quarrelsome. He is willing 
to believe that you know more about it than he 
does. He is always at home for ideas. 

he is HAPPY 

Of course, what bothers other people is that 
the Boob is so happy. He enjoys himself. He 
falls into that Rapid Transit pit of ours and 
has more fun out of the tumble than the sneer- 
ing 26,448 who stand above untumbled. The 
happy simp prefers a 4 per cent that pays to a 
15 per cent investment that returns only en- 
graved prospectuses. He stands on that street 
corner looking for an imaginary angel parachut- 
ing down, and enjoys himself more than the 
Mephistopheles who is laughing up his sleeve. 

nature's darling 

Nature must love the Boob, because she is a 
good deal of a Boob herself. How she has 

[249] 



Mince Pie 

squandered herself upon mountain peaks that 
are useless except for the Alpenstock Trust; 
upon violets that can't be eaten; upon giraffes 
whose backs slope too steeply to carry a pack! 
Can it be that the Boob is Nature's darling, that 
she intends him to outlive all the rest? 

A BRIEF MAXIM 

Be sure you're a Boob, and then go ahead. 

IN CONCLUSION 

But never, dear Cynthia, confuse the Boob 
with the Poor Fish. The Poor Fish, as an 
Emersonian thinker has observed, is the Boob 
gone wrong. The Poor Fish is the cynical, 
sneering simpleton who, if he did see an angel, 
would think it was only some one dressed up for 
the movies. The Poor Fish is Why Boobs Leave 
Home. 

II. Simplification 

Dear Sir — How can life be simplified? In 
the office where I work the pressure of affairs 
is very exacting. Often I do not have a mo- 
ment to think over my own affairs before If. p. m. 
There are a great many matters that puzzle me, 
and I am afraid that if I go on working so 
[250] 



Letters to Cynthia 

hard the sweetest hours of my youth may pass 
before I have given them proper consideration. 
It is very irassible. Can you help me? 

Cynthia. 

salutation to cynthia 

Cynthia, my child : How are you ? It is very 
delightful to hear from you again. During the 
recent months I have been very lonely indeed 
without your comradeship and counsel with re- 
gard to the great matters which were under 
consideration. 

THINKING IT OVER 

Well, Cynthia, when your inquiry reached me 
I propped my feet on the desk, got out the corn- 
cob pipe and thought things over. How to sim- 
plify life? How, indeed! It is a subject that 
interests me strangely. Of course, the easiest 
method is to let one's ancestors do it for one. 
If you have been lucky enough to choose a sim- 
ple-minded, quiet-natured quartet of grandpar- 
ents, frugal, thrifty and foresighted, who had 
the good sense to buy property in an im- 
proving neighborhood and keep their money 
compounding at a fair rate of interest, the prob- 
lem is greatly clarified. If they have hung on 
to the old farmstead, with its huckleberry pas- 

[251] 



Mince Pie 

ture and cowbells tankling homeward at sunset 
and a bright brown brook cascading down over 
ledges of rock into a swimming hole, then again 
your problem has possible solutions. Just go 
out to the farm, with a copy of Matthew Ar- 
nold's "Scholar Gipsy" (you remember the 
poem, in which he praises the guy who had 
sense enough to leave town and live in the 
suburbs where the Bolsheviki wouldn't bother 
him), and don't leave any forwarding address 
with the postoffice. But if, as I fear from an 
examination of your pink-scalloped notepaper 
with its exhalation of lilac essence, the vortex 
of modern jazz life has swept you in, the crisis 
is far more intricate. 

TAKE THE MATTER IN YOUR OWN HANDS 

Of course, my dear Cynthia, it is better to 
simplify your own life than to have some one 
else do it for you. The Kaiser, for instance, 
has had his career greatly simplified, but hardly 
in a way he himself would have chosen. The 
first thing to do is to come to a clear under- 
standing of (and to let your employer know you 
understand) the two principles that underlie 
modern business. There are only two kinds of 
affairs that are attended to in an office. First, 
things that absolutely must be done. These are 
[252] 



Letters to Cynthia 

often numerous; but remember, that since they 
have to be done, if you don't do them some one 
else will. Second, things that don't have to be 
done. And since they don't have to be done, 
why do them? This will simplify matters a 
great deal. 

FURTHER SUGGESTIONS 

The next thing to do is to stop answering 
letters. Even the firm's most persistent cus- 
tomers will cease troubling you by and bye if 
you persist. Then, stop answering the tele- 
phone. A pair of office shears can sever a tele- 
phone wire much faster than any mechanician 
can keep it repaired. If the matter is really 
urgent, let the other people telegraph. While 
you are perfecting this scheme look about, in a 
dignified way, for another job. Don't take the 
first thing that offers itself, but wait until some- 
thing really congenial appears. It is a good 
thing to choose some occupation that will keep 
you a great deal in the open air, preferably 
something that involves looking at shop win- 
dows and frequent visits to the receiving teller 
at the bank. It is nice to have a job in a tall 
building overlooking the sea, with office hours 
from 3 to 5 p. m. 

[253] 



Mince Pie 

HOW EASY, AFTER ALL ! 

Many people, dear Cynthia, are harassed 
because they do not realize how easy it is to 
get out of a job which involves severe and con- 
centrated effort. My child, you must not allow 
yourself to become discouraged. Almost any 
job can be shaken off in time and with perse- 
verance. Looking out of the window is a great 
help. There are very few businesses where 
what goes on in the office is half as interesting 
as what is happening on the street outside. If 
your desk does not happen to be near a win- 
dow, so much the better. You can watch the 
sunset admirably from the window of the ad- 
vertising manager's office. Call his attention 
to the rosy tints in the afterglow or the glori- 
ous pallor of the clouds. Advertising mana- 
gers are apt to be insufficiently appreciative of 
these things. Sometimes, when they are clos- 
eted with the Boss in conference, open the 
ground-glass door and say, "I think it is going 
to rain shortly." Carry your love of the beau- 
tiful into your office life. This will inevitably 
pave the way to simplification. 

ENVELOPES WITH LOOP HOLES 

And never open envelopes with little trans- 
parent panes of isinglass in their fronts. Never 
[254] 



Letters to Cynthia 

keep copies of your correspondence. For, if 
your letters are correct, no copy will be neces- 
sary. And, if incorrect, it is far better not to 
have a copy. If you were to tell me the exact 
nature of your work I could offer many more 
specific hints. 

YOUR INQUIRY, CHILD, TOUCHES MY HEART 

I am intimately interested in your problem, 
my child, for I am a great believer in simpli- 
fication. It is hard to follow out one's own 
precepts; but the root of happiness is never to 
contradict any one and never agree with any 
one. For if you contradict people, they will 
try to convince you ; and if you agree with them, 
they will enlarge upon their views until they 
say something you will feel bound to contra- 
dict. Let me hear from you again. 



[255] 



TO AN UNKNOWN DAMSEL 

ON Fifth Street, in a small cafe, 
Upstairs (our tables were adjacent), 
I saw you lunching yesterday, 

And felt a secret thrill complacent. 

You sat, and, waiting for your meal, 
You read a book. As I was eating, 

Dear me, how keen you made me feel 
To give you just a word of greeting! 

And as your hand the pages turned, 
I watched you, dumbly contemplating — 

how exceedingly I yearned 

To ask the girl to keep you waiting. 

1 wished that I could be the maid 

To serve your meal or crumb your cloth, or 
Beguile some hazard to my aid 

To know your verdict on that author! 

And still you read. You dropped your purse, 

And yet, adorably unheeding, 
You turned the pages, verse by verse, — 

I watched, and worshiped you for reading! 
[256] 



To an Unknown Damsel 

You know not what restraint it took 
To mind my etiquette, nor flout it 

By telling you I know that book, 

And asking what you thought about it. 

I cursed myself for being shy — 
I longed to make polite advances; 

Alas ! I let the time go by, 

And Fortune gives no second chances. 

You read, but still your face was calm — 
(I scanned it closely, wretched sinner!) 

You showed no sign — I felt a qualm — 

And then the waitress brought your dinner. 

Those modest rhymes, you thought them fair? 

And will you sometimes praise or quote them ? 
And do you ask why I should care? 

Oh, Lady, it was I who wrote them! 



[257] 



THOUGHTS ON SETTING AN ALARM 
CLOCK 

MARK the monitory dial, 
Set the gong for six a. m. — 
Then, until the hour of trial, 
Clock a little sleep, pro tern. 

As I crank the dread alarum 
Stern resolve I try to fix: 

My ideals, shall I mar 'em 
When the awful moment ticks ? 

Heaven strengthen my intention, 
Grant me grace my vow to keep : 

Would the law enforced Prevention 
Of such Cruelty to Sleep ! 



[258] 



SONGS IN A SHOWER BATH 




Hot Water 



GENTLY, while the drenching dribble 
Courses down my sweltered form, 
I am basking like a sybil, 

Lazy, languorous and warm. 
I am unambitious, flaccid, 

Well content to drowse and dream: 
How I hate life's bitter acid — 

Leave me here to stew and steam. 
Underneath this jet so torrid 

I forget the world's sad wrath: 
O activity is horrid! 

Leave me in my shower-bath! 

[259] 



Mince Pie 

Cold Water 

BUT when I turn the crank 
OZeus! 

A silver ecstasy thrills me! 

I caper and slap my chilled thighs, 

I plan to make a card index of all my ideas 

And feel like an efficiency expert. 

I tweak Fate by the nose 

And know I could succeed in anything. 

I throw up my head 

And glut myself with icy splatter . . . 

To-day I will really 

Begin my career ! 



[260] 



ON DEDICATING A NEW TEAPOT 

BOILING water now is poured, 
Pouches filled with fresh tobacco, 
Round the hospitable board 

Fragrant steams Ceylon or Pekoe. 

Bread and butter is cut thin, 

Cream and sugar, yes, bring them on; 
Ginger cookies in their tin, 

And the dainty slice of lemon. 

Let the marmalade be brought, 

Buns of cinnamon adhesive; 
And, to catch the leaves, you ought 

To be sure to have the tea-sieve. 

But, before the cups be filled — 
Cups that cause no ebriation — 

Let a genial wish be willed 
Just by way of dedication. 

Here's your fortune, gentle pot: 
To our thirst you offer slakeage; 

Bright blue china, may I not 

Hope no maid will cause you breakage. 

[261] 



Mince Pie 

^Kindest ministrant to man, 

Long be jocund years before you, 

And no meaner fortune than 

Helen's gracious hand to pour you! 



1262] 



THE UNFORGIVABLE SYNTAX 

A CERTAIN young man never knew 
Just when to say whom and when who/ 
"The question of choosing," 
He said, "is confusing; 
I wonder if which wouldn't do?" 

Nothing is so illegitimate 

As a noun when his verbs do not fit him ; it 

Makes him disturbed 

If not properly verbed — 
If he asks for the plural, why git him it ! 

Lie and lay offer slips to the pen 

That have bothered most excellent men;: 

You can say that you lay 

In bed — yesterday; 
If you do it to-day, you're a hen ! 

A person we met at a play 
Was cruel to pronouns all day: 

She would frequently cry 

"Between you and I, 
If only us girls had our way — !" 

[263] 



VISITING POETS 

WE were giving a young English poet a 
taste of Philadelphia, trying to show 
him one or two of the simple beauties that 
make life agreeable to us. Having just been 
photographed, he was in high good humor. 

"What a pity," he said, "that you in Amer- 
ica have no literature that reflects the amazing 
energy, the humor, the raciness of your life! 
I woke up last night at the hotel and heard a 
motor fire engine thunder by. There's a sym- 
bol of the extraordinary vitality of America! 
My, if I could only live over here a couple of 
years, how I'd like to try my hand at it. It's 
a pity that no one over here is putting down 
the humor of your life." 

"Have you read O. Henry?" we suggested. 

"Extraordinary country," he went on. "Some- 
body turned me loose on Mr. Morgan's library 
in New York. There was a librarian there, but 
I didn't let her bother me. I wanted to see 
that manuscript of 'Endymion' they have there. 
I supposed they would take me up to a glass 
case and let me gaze at it. Not at all. They 
[264] 



Visiting Poets 

put it right in my hands and I spent three quar- 
ters of an hour over it. Wonderful stuff. You 
know, the first edition of my book is selling at 
a double premium in London. It's been out 
only eighteen months." 

"How do you fellows get away with it?" we 
asked humbly. 

"I hope Pond isn't going to book me up for 
too many lectures," he said. "I've got to get 
back to England in the spring. There's a 
painter over there waiting to do my portrait. 
But there are so many places I've got to lec- 
ture — everybody seems to want to hear about 
the young English poets." 

"I hear Philip Gibbs is just arriving in New 
York/' we said. 

"Is that so? Dear me, he'll quite take the 
wind out of my sails, won't he? Nice chap, 
Gibbs. He sent me an awfully cheery note 
when I went out to the front as a war corre- 
spondent. Said he liked my stuff about the 
sodgers. He'll make a pot of money over here, 
won't he?" 

We skipped across City Hall Square abreast 
of some trolley cars. 

"I say, these trams keep one moving, don't 
they?" he said. "You know, I was tremen- 

[265] 



Mince Pie 

dously bucked by that department store you 
took me to see. That's the sort of place one 
has to go to see the real art of America. Those 
paintings in there, by the elevators, they were 
done by a young English girl. Friend of mine 
— in fact, she did the pictures for my first book. 
Pity you have so few poets over here. You 
mustn't make me lose my train ; I've got a date 
with Vachel Lindsay and Edgar Lee Masters 
in New York to-night. Vachel's an amusing 
bird. I must get him over to England and get 
him started. I've written to Edmund Gosse 
about him, and I'm going to write again. What 
a pity Irvin Cobb doesn't write poetry ! He's a 
great writer. What vivacity, what a rich vocab- 
ulary !" 

"Have you read Mark Twain?" we quav- 
ered. 

"Oh, Mark's grand when he's serious; but 
when he tries to be funny, you know, it's too 
obvious. I can always see him feeling for the 
joke. No, it doesn't come off. You know an 
artist simply doesn't exist for me unless he has 
something to say. That's what makes me so 
annoyed with R. L. S. In 'Weir of Hermiston' 
and the 'New Arabian Nights' he really had 
something to say; the rest of the time he was 
playing the fool on some one else's instrument. 
You know style isn't something you can borrow 
[266] 



Visiting Poets 

from some one else; it's the unconscious revela- 
tion of a man's own personality." 
We agreed. 

"I wonder if there aren't some clubs around 
here that would like to hear me talk?" he said. 
"You know, I'd like to come back to Philadel- 
phia if I could get some dates of that sort. 
Just put me wise, old man, if you hear of any- 
thing. I was telling some of your poets in 
New York about the lectures I've been giving. 
'Those chaps are fearfully rough with one. 
You know, they'll just ride over one rough- 
shod if you give them a chance. They hate to 
see a fellow a success. Awful tripe some of 
them are writing. They don't seem to be ex- 
pressing the spirit, the fine exhilaration, of 
American life at all. If I had my way, I'd 
make every one in America read Rabelais and 
Madame Bovary. Then they ought to study 
some of the old English poets, like Marvell, to 
give them precision. It's lots of fun telling 
them these things. They respond famously. 
Now over in my country we poets are all so 
reserved, so shy, so taciturn. 

"You know Pond, the lecture man in New 
York, was telling me a quaint story about Mase- 
field. Great friend of mine, old Jan Masefield. 

[267] 



Mince Pie 

He turned up in New York to talk at some show 
Pond was running. Had on some horrible old 
trench boots. There was only about twenty 
minutes before the show began. 'Well/ says 
Pond, hoping Jan was going to change his 
clothes, 'are you all ready?' 'Oh, yes/ says 
Jan. Pond was graveled; didn't know just 
what to do. So he says, hoping to give Jan a 
hint, 'Well, I've just got to get my boots pol- 
ished.' Of course, they didn't need it — Amer- 
icans' boots never do — but Pond sits down on 
a boot-polishing stand and the boy begins to 
polish for dear life. Jan sits down by him, 
deep in some little book or other, paying no 
attention. Pond whispers to the boy, 'Quick, 
polish his boots while he's reading.' Jan was 
deep in his book, never knew what was going 
on. Then they went off to the lecture, Jan in 
his jolly old sack suit." 

We went up to a private gallery on Walnut 
Street, where some of the most remarkable lit- 
erary treasures in the world are stored, such as 
the original copy of Elia given by Charles 
Lamb to the lady he wanted to marry, Fanny 
Kelly. There we also saw some remarkable 
first editions of Shelley. 

"You know," he said, "Mrs. L in New 

York — I had an introduction to her from Jan — 
[268] 



Visiting Poets 

wanted to give me a first edition of Shelley, 
but I wouldn't let her," 

"How do you fellows get away with it?" we 
said again humbly. 

"Well, old man/' he said, "I must be going. 
Mustn't keep Vachel waiting. Is this where I 
train? What a ripping station! Some day I 
must write a poem about all this. What a pity 
you have so few poets . . ." 



[269] 



A GOOD HOME IN THE SUBURBS 

THERE are a number of empty apartments 
in the suburbs of our mind that we shall 
be glad to rent to any well-behaved ideas. 

These apartments (unfurnished) all have 
southern exposure and are reasonably well 
lighted. They have emergency exits. 

We prefer middle-aged, reasonable ideas 
that have outgrown the diseases of infancy. 
No ideas need apply that will lie awake at night 
and disturb the neighbors, or will come home 
very late and wake the other tenants. This is 
an orderly mind, and no gambling, loud laugh- 
ter and carnival or Pomeranian dogs will be 
admitted. 

If necessary, the premises can be improved 
to suit high-class tenants. 

No lease longer than six months can be given 
to any one idea, unless it can furnish positive 
guarantees of good conduct, no bolshevik affil- 
iations and no children. 

We have an orphanage annex where home- 
less juvenile ideas may be accommodated until 
they grow up. 
[270] 



A Good Home in the Suburbs 

The southwestern section of our mind, where 
these apartments are available, is some distance 
from the bustle and traffic, but all the central 
points can be reached without difficulty. Mid- 
dle-aged, unsophisticated ideas of domestic 
tastes will find the surroundings almost ideal. 

For terms and blue prints apply janitor on 
the premises. 



[271] 



WALT WHITMAN MINIATURES 



A DECENT respect to the opinions of man- 
kind requires that one should have some 
excuse for being away from the office on a 
working afternoon. September sunshine and 
trembling blue air are not sufficient reasons, it 
seems. Therefore, if any one should brutally 
ask what I was doing the other day dangling 
down Chestnut Street toward the river, I should 
have to reply, "Looking for the Wenonah." 
The Wenonah, you will immediately conclude, 
is a moving picture theater. But be patient a 
moment. 

Lower Chestnut Street is a delightful place 
for one who does not get down there very often. 
The face of wholesale trade, dingier than the 
glitter of uptown shops, is far more exciting 
and romantic. Pavements are cumbered with 
vast packing cases ; whiffs of tea and spice well 
up from cool cellars. Below Second Street I 
found a row of enormous sacks across the curb, 
[272] 



Walt Whitman Miniatures 

with bright red and green wool pushing through 
holes in the burlap. Such signs as WOOL, 
NOILS AND WASTE are frequent. I won- 
der what noils are ? A big sign on Front Street 
proclaims TEA CADDIES, which has a pleas- 
ant grandmotherly flavor. A little brass plate, 
gleamingly polished, says HONORARY CON- 
SULATE OF JAPAN. Beside immense mo- 
tor trucks stood a shabby little horse and buggy, 
restored to service, perhaps, by the war-time 
shortage of gasoline. It was a typical one- 
horse shay of thirty years ago. 

I crossed over to Camden on the ferryboat 
Wildwood, observing in the course of the voy- 
age her sisters, Bridgeton, Camden, Salem and 
Hammonton. It is curious that no matter where 
one goes, one will always meet people who are 
traveling there for the first time. A small boy 
next to me was gazing in awe at the stalwart 
tower of the Victor Company, and snuffing with 
pleasure the fragrance of cooking tomatoes that 
makes Camden savory at this time of year. 
Wagonloads of ripe Jersey tomatoes making 
their way to the soup factory are a j ocund sight 
across the river just now. 

Every ferry passenger is familiar with the 
rapid tinkling of the ratchet wheel that warps 
the landing stage up to the level of the boat's 
deck. I asked the man who was running the 

[273} 



Mince Pie 

wheel where I would find the Wenondh. "She 
lays over in the old Market Street slip/' he re- 
plied, and cheerfully showed me just where to 
find her. "Is she still used?" I asked. "Mostly 
on Saturday nights and holidays/' he said, 
"when there's a big crowd going across." 

The Wenonak, as all Camden seafarers know, 
is a ferryboat, one of the old-timers, and I 
was interested in her because she and her sis- 
ter, the Beverly, were Walt Whitman's favorite 
ferries. He crossed back and forth on them 
hundreds of times and has celebrated them in 
several paragraphs in Specimen Days. Per- 
haps this is the place to quote his memorandum 
dated January 12, 1882, which ought to interest 
all lovers of the Camden ferry: 

"Such a show as the Delaware presented an 
hour before sundown yesterday evening, all 
along between Philadelphia and Camden, is 
worth weaving into an item. It was full tide, 
a fair breeze from the southwest, the water of 
a pale tawny color, and just enough motion to 
make things frolicsome and lively. Add to 
these an approaching sunset of unusual splen- 
dor, a broad tumble of clouds, with much gold- 
en haze and profusion of beaming shaft and 
dazzle. In the midst of all, in the clear drab 
of the afternoon light, there steamed up the 
river the large new boat, the Wenonah, as 
[274] 



Walt Whitman Miniatures 

pretty an obj ect as you could wish to see, lightly 
and swiftly skimming along, all trim and white, 
covered with flags, transparent red and blue 
streaming out in the breeze. Only a new ferry- 
boat, and yet in its fitness comparable with the 
prettiest product of Nature's cunning, and ri- 
valing it. High up in the transparent ether 
gracefully balanced and circled four or five 
great sea hawks, while here below, mid 
the pomp and picturesqueness of sky and 
river, swam this creature of artificial beauty 
and motion and power, in its way no less per- 
fect." 

You will notice that Walt Whitman describes 
the Wenonah as being white. The Pennsyl- 
vania ferryboats, as we know them, are all the 
brick-red color that is familiar to the pres- 
ent generation. Perhaps older navigators of 
the Camden crossing can tell us whether the 
boats were all painted white in a less smoky 
era? 

The Wenonah and the Beverly were lying in 
the now unused ferry slip at the foot of Market 
Street, alongside the great Victor Talking Ma- 
chine works. Picking my way through an 
empty yard where some carpentering was going 
on, I found a deserted pier that overlooked the 
two old vessels and gave a fair prospect on to 
the river and the profile of Philadelphia. Sit- 

[275] 



Mince Pie 

ting there on a pile of pebbles, I lit a pipe and 
watched the busy panorama of the river. I made 
no effort to disturb the normal and congenial 
lassitude that is the highest function of the hu- 
man being: no Hindoo philosopher could have 
been more pleasantly at ease. (O. Henry, one 
remembers, used to insist that what some of 
his friends called laziness was really "dignified 
repose.") Two elderly colored men were load- 
ing gravel onto a cart not far away. I was 
a little worried as to what I could say if they 
asked what I was doing. In these days casual 
loungers along docksides may be suspected of 
depth bombs and high treason. The only truth- 
ful reply to any question would have been that 
I was thinking about Walt Whitman. Such a 
remark, if uttered in Philadelphia, would un- 
doubtedly have been answered by a direction 
to the chocolate factory on Race Street. But 
in Camden every one knows about Walt. Still, 
the colored men said nothing beyond returning 
my greeting. Their race, wise in simplicity, 
knows that loafing needs no explanation and is 
its own excuse. 

If Walt could revisit the ferries he loved so 

well, in New York and Philadelphia, he would 

find the former strangely altered in aspect. 

The New York skyline wears a very different 

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Walt Whitman Miniatures 

silhouette against the sky, with its marvelous 
peaks and summits drawing the eye aloft. But 
Philadelphia's profile is (I imagine) not much 
changed. I do not know just when the City 
Hall tower was finished: Walt speaks of it as 
"three-fifths built" in 1879- That, of course, 
is the dominant unit in the view from Camden. 
Otherwise there are few outstanding elements. 
The gradual rise in height of the buildings, 
from Front Street gently ascending up to 
Broad, gives no startling contrast of elevation 
to catch the gaze. The spires of the older 
churches stand up like soft blue pencils, and 
the massive cornices of the Curtis and Drexel 
buildings catch the sunlight. Otherwise the 
outline is even and well-massed in a smooth 
ascending curve. 

It is curious how a man can stamp his per- 
sonality upon earthly things. There will al- 
ways be pilgrims to whom Camden and the Del- 
aware ferries are full of excitement and mean- 
ing because of Walt Whitman. Just as Strat- 
ford is Shakespeare, so is Camden Whitman. 
Some supercilious observers, flashing through 
on the way to Atlantic City, may only see a 
town in which there is no delirious and seizing 
beauty. Let us remind them of Walt's own 
words : 

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A great city is that which has the greatest men and 

women, 
If it be a few ragged huts it is still the greatest city 

in the whole world. 

And as I came back across the river, and an 
airplane hovered over us at a great height, I 
thought how much we need a Whitman to-day, 
a poet who can catch the heart and meaning of 
these grievous bitter years, who can make plain 
the surging hopes that throb in the breasts of 
men. The world has not flung itself into agony 
without some unexpressed vision that lights the 
sacrifice. If Walt Whitman were here he 
would look on this new world of moving pic- 
tures and gasoline engines and U-boats and tell 
us what it means. His great heart, which 
with all its garrulous fumbling had caught the 
deep music of human service and fellowship, 
would have had true and fine words for us. 
And yet he would have found it a hard world 
for one of his strolling meditative observancy. 
A speeding motor truck would have run him 
down long ago ! 

As I left the ferry at Market Street I saw 
that the Norwegian steamer Taunton was un- 
loading bananas at the Ericsson pier. Less 
than a month ago she picked up the survivors 
of the schooner Madrugada, torpedoed by a 
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Walt Whitman Miniatures 

U-boat off Winter Bottom Shoal. On the Ma- 
drugada was a young friend of mine, a Dutch 
sailor, who told me of the disaster after he was 
landed in New York. To come unexpectedly on 
the ship that had rescued him seemed a great 
adventure. What a poem Walt Whitman could 
have made of it! 



II 



It is a weakness of mine — not a sinful one, 
I hope — that whenever I see any one reading 
a book in public I am agog to find out what it 
is. Crossing over to Camden this morning a 
young woman on the ferry was absorbed in a 
volume, and I couldn't resist peeping over her 
shoulder. It was "Hans Brinker." On the 
same boat were several schoolboys carrying 
copies of Myers' "History of Greece." Quaint, 
isn't it, how our schools keep up the same old 
bunk ! What earthly use will a smattering of 
Greek history be to those boys? Surely to our 
citizens of the coming generation the battles of 
the Marne will be more important than the 
scuffle at Salamis. 

My errand in Camden was to visit the house 
on Mickle Street where Walt Whitman lived his 
last years. It is now occupied by Mrs. Thomas 
Skymer, a friendly Italian woman, and her 

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family. Mrs. Skymer graciously allowed me 
to go through the downstairs rooms. 

I don't suppose any literary shrine on earth 
is of more humble and disregarded aspect than 
Mickle Street. It is a little cobbled byway, 
grimed with drifting smoke from the railway 
yards, littered with wind-blown papers and 
lined with small wooden and brick houses sooted 
almost to blackness. It is curious to think, as 
one walks along that bumpy brick pavement, 
that many pilgrims from afar have looked for- 
ward to visiting Mickle Street as one of the 
world's most significant altars. As Chesterton 
wrote once, "We have not yet begun to get to 
the beginning of Whitman." But the wayfarer 
of to-day will find Mickle Street far from im- 
pressive. 

The little house, a two-story frame cottage, 
painted dark brown, is numbered 330. (In 
Whitman's day it was 328.) On the pavement 
in front stands a white marble stepping-block 

with the carved initials W. W. given to 

the poet, I dare say, by the same friends who 
bought him a horse and carriage. A small sign, 
in English and Italian, says: Thomas A. Skymer, 
Automobiles to Hire on Occasions. It was with 
something of a thrill that I entered the little 
front parlor where Walt used to sit, surrounded 
by his litter of papers and holding forth to 
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Walt Whitman Miniatures 

faithful listeners. One may safely say that his 
was a happy old age, for there were those who 
never jibbed at protracted audience. 

A description of that room as it was in the 
last days of Whitman's life may not be unin- 
teresting. I quote from the article published 
by the Philadelphia Press of March 27, 1892, 
the day after the poet's death: 

Below the windowsill a four-inch pine shelf is 
swung, on which rests a bottle of ink, two or three 
pens and a much-rubbed spectacle case. 

(The shelf, I am sorry to say, is no longer 
there.) 

The table — between which and the wall is the poet's 
rocker covered with a worsted afghan, presented to 
him one Christmas by a bevy of college girls who 
admired his work — is so thickly piled with books and 
magazines, letters and the raffle of a literary desk 
that there is scarcely an inch of room upon which 
he may rest his paper as he writes. A volume of 
Shakespeare lies on top of a heaping full waste 
basket that was once used to bring peaches to mar- 
ket, and an ancient copy of Worcester's Dictionary 
shares places in an adjacent chair with the poet's 
old and familiar soft gray hat, a newly darned blue 
woolen sock and a shoe-blacking brush. There is a 
paste bottle and brush on the table and a pair of 
scissors, much used by the poet, who writes, for the 
most part, on small bits of paper and parts of old 

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envelopes and pastes them together in patchwork 
fashion. 

In spite of a careful examination, I could 
find nothing in the parlor at all reminiscent of 
Whitman's tenancy, except the hole for the 
stovepipe under the mantel. One of Mrs. Sky- 
mer's small boys told me that "He" died in that 
room. Evidently small Louis Skymer didn't in 
the least know who "He" was, but realized 
that his home was in some vague way connected 
with a mysterious person whose memory occa- 
sionally attracts inquirers to the house. 

Behind the parlor is a dark little bedroom,, 
and then the kitchen. In a corner of the back 
yard is a curious thing: a large stone or terra 
cotta bust of a bearded man, very much like 
Whitman himself, but the face is battered and 
the nose broken so it would be hard to assert 
this definitely. One of the boys told me that 
it was in the yard when they moved in a year 
or so ago. The house is a little dark, standing 
between two taller brick neighbors. At the 
head of the stairs I noticed a window with col- 
ored panes, which lets in spots of red, blue and 
yellow light. I imagine that this patch of vivid 
color was a keen satisfaction to Walt's acute 
senses. Such is the simple cottage that one 
associates with America's literary declaration of 
independence. 
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Walt Whitman Miniatures 

The other Whitman shrine in Camden is the 
tomb in Harleigh Cemetery, reached by the 
Haddonfield trolley. Doctor Oberholtzer, in his 
"Literary History of Philadelphia," calls it 
"tawdry," to which I fear I must demur. Built 
into a quiet hillside in that beautiful cemetery, 
of enormous slabs of rough-hewn granite with 
a vast stone door standing symbolically ajar, it 
seemed to me grotesque, but greatly impressive. 
It is a weird pagan cromlech, with a huge tri- 
angular boulder above the door bearing only 
the words WALT WHITMAN. Palms and 
rubber plants grow in pots on the little curved 
path leading up to the tomb; above it is an un- 
combed hillside and trees flickering in the air. 
At this tomb, designed (it is said) by Whitman 
himself, was held that remarkable funeral cere- 
mony on March 30, 1892, when a circus tent 
was not large enough to roof the crowd, and 
peanut venders did business on the outskirts of 
the gathering. Perhaps it is not amiss to re- 
call what Bob Ingersoll said on that occasion : 

"He walked among verbal varnishers and ve- 
neerers, among literary milliners and tailors, 
with the unconscious dignity of an antique god. 
He was the poet of that divine democracy that 
gives equal rights to all the sons and daughters 
of men. He uttered the great American voice." 

And though one finds in the words of the 

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naive Ingersoll the squeaking timber of the 
soapbox, yet even a soapbox does lift a man a 
few inches above the level of the clay. 

Well, the Whitman battle is not over yet, nor 
ever will be. Though neither Philadelphia nor 
Camden has recognized 330 Mickle Street as 
one of the authentic shrines of our history 
(Lord, how trimly dight it would be if it were 
in New England!), Camden has made a certain 
amend in putting Walt into the gay mosaic that 
adorns the portico of the new public library in 
Cooper Park. There, absurdly represented in 
an austere black cassock, he stands in the fol- 
lowing frieze of great figures: Dante, Whit- 
man, Moliere, Gutenberg, Tyndale, Washington, 
Penn, Columbus, Moses, Raphael, Michael An- 
gelo, Shakespeare, Longfellow and Palestrina. 
I believe that there was some rumpus as to 
whether Walt should be included; but, anyway, 
there he is. 

You will make a great mistake if you don't 
ramble over to Camden some day and fleet the 
golden hours in an observant stroll. Himself 
the prince of loafers, Walt taught the town to 
loaf. When they built the new postofEce over 
there they put round it a ledge for philosophic 
lounging, one of the most delightful architec- 
tural features I have ever seen. And on Third 
Street, just around the corner from 330 Mickle 
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Walt Whitman Miniatures 

Street, is the oddest plumber's shop in the world. 
Mr. George F. Hammond, a Civil War veteran, 
who knew Whitman and also Lincoln, came to 
Camden in '69- In 1888 he determined to build 
a shop that would be different from anything 
on earth, and well he succeeded. Perhaps it is 
symbolic of the shy and harassed soul of the 
plumber, fleeing from the unreasonable demands 
of his customers, for it is a kind of Gothic 
fortress. Leaded windows, gargoyles, mascu- 
line medusa heads, a sallyport, loopholes and a 
little spire. I stopped in to talk to Mr. Ham- 
mond, and he greeted me graciously. He says 
that people have come all the way from Cali- 
fornia to see his shop, and I can believe it. It 
is the work of a delightful and original spirit 
who does not care to live in a demure hutch like 
all the rest of us, and has really had some fun 
out of his whimsical little castle. He says he 
would rather live in Camden than in Philadel- 
phia, and I daresay he's right. 

Ill 

Something in his aspect as he leaned over 
the railing near me drew me on to speak to him. 
I don't know just how to describe it except by 
saying that he had an understanding look. He 
gave me the impression of a man who had spent 
his life in thinking and would understand me, 

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Mince Pie 

whatever I might say. He looked like the kind 
of man to whom one would find one's self say- 
ing wise and thoughtful things. There are 
some people, you know, to whom it is impossible 
to speak wisdom even if you should wish to. 
No spirit of kindly philosophy speaks out of 
their eyes. You find yourself automatically 
saying peevish or futile things that you do not 
in the least believe. 

The mood and the place were irresistible for 
communion. The sun was warm along the 
river front and my pipe was trailing a thin 
whiff of blue vapor out over the gently fluctu- 
ating water, which clucked and sagged along 
the slimy pilings. Behind us the crash and 
banging of heavy traffic died away into a 
dreamy undertone in the mild golden shimmer 
of the noon hour. 

The old man was apparently lost in revery, 
looking out over the river toward Camden. He 
was plainly dressed in coat and trousers of 
some coarse weave. His shirt, partly unbut- 
toned under the great white sweep of his beard, 
was of gray flannel. His boots were those of 
a man much accustomed to walking. A weather- 
stained sombrero was on his head. Beneath it 
his thick white hair and whiskers wavered in the 
soft breeze. Just then a boy came out from 
the near-by ferry house carrying a big crate of 
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Walt Whitman Miniatures 

daffodils, perhaps on their way from some Jer- 
sey farm to an uptown florist. We watched 
them shining and trembling across the street, 
where he loaded them onto a truck. The old 
gentleman's eyes, which were a keen gray blue, 
caught mine as we both turned from admiring 
the flowers. 

I don't know just why I said it, but they 
were the first words that popped into my head. 
"And then my heart with pleasure fills and 
dances with the daffodils," I quoted. 

He looked at me a little quizzically. 

"You imported those words on a ship," he 
said. "Why don't you use some of your own 
instead ?" 

I was considerably taken aback. "Why, I 
don't know," I hesitated. "They just came 
into my head." 

"Well, I call that bad luck," he said, "when 
some one else's words come into a man's head 
instead of words of his own." 

He looked about him, watching the scene with 
rich satisfaction. "It's good to see all this 
again," he said. "I haven't loafed around here 
for going on thirty years." 

"You've been out of town?" I asked. 

He looked at me with a steady blue eye in 
which there was something of humor and some- 
thing of sadness. 

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Mince Pie 

"Yes, a long way out. I've just come back 
to see how the Great Idea is getting along. I 
thought maybe I could help a little." 

"The Great Idea?" I queried, puzzled. 

"The value of the individual/' he said. "The 
necessity for every human being to be able to 
live, think, act, dream, pray for himself. Now- 
adays I believe you call it the League of Na- 
tions. It's the same thing. Are men to be free 
to decide their fate for themselves or are they 
to be in the grasp of irresponsible tyrants, the 
hell of war, the cruelties of creeds, executive 
deeds just or unjust, the power of personality 
just or unjust? What are your poets, your 
young Libertads, doing to bring about the 
Great Idea of perfect and free individuals?" 

I was rather at a loss, but happily he did not 
stay for an answer. Above us an American flag 
was fluttering on a staff, showing its bright 
ribs of scarlet clear and vivid against the sky. 

"You see that flag of stars," he said, "that 
thick-sprinkled bunting? I have seen that flag 
stagger in the agony of threatened dissolution, 
in years that trembled and reeled beneath us. 
You have only seen it in the days of its easy, 
sure triumphs. I tell you, now is the day for 
America to show herself, to prove her dreams 
for the race. But who is chanting the poem 
that comes from the soul of America, the carol 
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Walt Whitman Miniatures 

of victory ? Who strikes up the marches of 
Libertad that shall free this tortured ship of 
earth? Democracy is the destined conqueror, 
yet I see treacherous lip-smiles everywhere and 
death and infidelity at every step. I tell you, 
now is the time of battle, now the time of striv- 
ing. I am he who tauntingly compels men, 
women, nations, crying, 'Leap from your seats. 
and contend for your lives !' I tell you, produce 
great Persons; the rest follows." 

"What do you think about the covenant of the 
League of Nations?" I asked. He looked out 
over the river for some moments before reply- 
ing and then spoke slowly, with halting utter- 
ance that seemed to suffer anguish in putting 
itself into words. 

"America will be great only if she builds for 
all mankind," he said. "This plan of the great 
Libertad leads the present with friendly hand 
toward the future. But to hold men together 
by paper and seal or by compulsion is no ac- 
count. That only holds men together which 
aggregates all in a living principle, as the hold 
of the limbs of the body or the fibers of plants. 
Does this plan answer universal needs? Can it 
face the open fields and the seaside? Will it 
absorb into me as I absorb food, air, to appear 
again in my strength, gait, face? Have real 
employments contributed to it — original mak- 

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Mince Pie 

ers, not mere amaneunses? I think so, and 
therefore I say to you, now is the day to fight 
for it." 

"Well/' he said, checking himself, "there's 
the ferry coming in. I'm going over to Camden 
to have a look around on my way back to Har- 
leigh." 

"I'm afraid you'll find Mickle street some- 
what changed," I said, for by this time I knew 
him. 

"I love changes," he said. 

"Your centennial comes on May SI," I said. 
"I hope you won't be annoyed if Philadelphia 
doesn't pay much attention to it. You know 
how things are around here." 

"My dear boy," he said, "I am patient. The 
proof of a poet shall be sternly deferred till his 
country absorbs him as affectionately as he has 
absorbed it. I have sung the songs of the Great 
Idea and that is reward in itself. I have loved 
the earth, sun, animals, I have despised riches, 
I have given alms to every one that asked, stood 
up for the stupid and crazy, devoted my income 
and labor to others, hated tyrants, argued not 
concerning God, had patience and indulgence 
toward the people, taken off my hat to nothing 
known or unknown, gone freely with powerful 
uneducated persons and I swear I begin to see 

the meaning of these things " 

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Walt Whitman Miniatures 

"All aboard!" cried the man at the gate of 
the ferry house. 

He waved his hand with a benign patriarchal 
gesture and was gone. 



[291] 



ON DOORS 

THE opening and closing of doors are the 
most significant actions of man's life. 
What a mystery lies in doors ! 

No man knows what awaits him when he 
opens a door. Even the most familiar room, 
where the clock ticks and the hearth glows red 
at dusk, may harbor surprises. The plumber 
may actually have called (while you were out) 
and fixed that leaking faucet. The cook may 
have had a fit of the vapors and demanded her 
passports. The wise man opens his front door 
with humility and a spirit of acceptance. 

Which one of us has not sat in some ante- 
room and watched the inscrutable panels of a 
door that was full of meaning? Perhaps you 
were waiting to apply for a job; perhaps you 
had some "deal" you were ambitious to put 
over. You watched the confidential stenog- 
rapher flit in and out, carelessly turning that 
mystic portal which, to you, revolved on hinges 
of fate. And then the young woman said, "Mr. 
Cranberry will see you now." As you grasped 
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On Doors 

the knob the thought flashed, "When I open this 
door again, what will have happened?" 

There are many kinds of doors. Revolving 
doors for hotels, shops and public buildings. 
These are typical of the brisk, bustling ways of 
modern life. Can you imagine John Milton or 
William Penn skipping through a revolving 
door? Then there are the curious little slatted 
doors that still swing outside denatured bar- 
rooms and extend only from shoulder to knee. 
There are trapdoors, sliding doors, double doors, 
stage doors, prison doors, glass doors. But 
the symbol and mystery of a door resides in 
its quality of concealment. A glass door is 
not a door at all, but a window. The meaning 
of a door is to hide what lies inside ; to keep the 
heart in suspense. 

Also, there are many ways of opening doors. 
There is the cheery push of elbow with which 
the waiter shoves open the kitchen door when 
he bears in your tray of supper. There is the 
suspicious and tentative withdrawal of a door 
before the unhappy book agent or peddler. 
There is the genteel and carefully modulated 
recession with which footmen swing wide the 
oaken barriers of the great. There is the 
sympathetic and awful silence of the dentist's 
maid who opens the door into the operating 

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Mince Pie 

room and, without speaking, implies that the 
doctor is ready for you. There is the brisk 
cataclysmic opening of a door when the nurse 
comes in, very early in the morning — "It's a 
boy!" 

Doors are the symbol of privacy, of retreat, 
of the mind's escape into blissful quietude or 
sad secret struggle. A room without doors is 
not a room, but a hallway. No matter where he 
is, a man can make himself at home behind a 
closed door. The mind works best behind 
closed doors. Men are not horses to be herded 
together. Dogs know the meaning and anguish 
of doors. Have you ever noticed a puppy 
yearning at a shut portal? It is a symbol of 
human life. 

The opening of doors is a mystic act: it has 
in it some flavor of the unknown, some sense of 
moving into a new moment, a new pattern of 
the human rigmarole. It includes the highest 
glimpses of mortal gladness: reunions, recon- 
ciliations, the bliss of lovers long parted. Even 
in sadness, the opening of a door may bring 
relief: it changes and redistributes human 
forces. But the closing of doors is far more 
terrible. It is a confession of finality. Every 
door closed brings something to an end. And 
there are degrees of sadness in the closing of 
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On Doors 

doors. A door slammed is a confession of 
weakness. A door gently shut is often the most 
tragic gesture in life. Every one knows the 
seizure of anguish that comes just after the 
closing of a door, when the loved one is still 
near, within sound of voice, and yet already 
far away. 

The opening and closing of doors is a part 
of the stern fluency of life. Life will not stay 
still and let us alone. We are continually open- 
ing doors with hope, closing them with despair. 
Life lasts not much longer than a pipe of to- 
bacco, and destiny knocks us out like the 
ashes. 

The closing of a door is irrevocable. It 
snaps the packthread of the heart. It is no 
avail to reopen, to go back. Pinero spoke non- 
sense when he made Paula Tanqueray say, "The 
future is only the past entered through another 
gate." Alas, there is no other gate. When the 
door is shut, it is shut forever. There is 
no other entrance to that vanished pulse of 
time. "The moving finger writes, and having 
writ" — 

There is a certain kind of door-shutting that 
will come to us all. The kind of door-shutting 
that is done very quietly, with the sharp click 
of the latch to break the stillness. They will 

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Mince Pie 

think then, one hopes, of our unfulfilled decen- 
cies rather than of our pluperfected misdemean- 
ors. Then they will go out and close the door. 




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